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THE 

ATLANTIC  CLUB-BOOK: 

BEING 

SKETCHES  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE 


VAKIOUS    AUTHORS, 


i 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
What,  were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight,  I 
And  so  to  bid  good  night  ? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past. 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile. 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
Nor  fade  at  last. — Herrick. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.    I. 


NEW-YORK: 

HARPEK  AND  BROTHERS,  82  CLIFF  STREET. 
1834. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1834, 

By  Haeper  and  Beothers, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office,  of  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


1 


PRINTED  BY  GEORGE  P.   SCOTT  &  CO. 


A?8  I 


TO 


V. 


JAMES  K.  PAULDING,  ESQ. 


DEAR  HIR, 

1  KNOW  not  to  whom  a  work  like  this,  cousistin^r  maiiily  of 
selections  from  native  authors,  can  with  more  propriety  be 
dedicated,  than  to  one  who  has  ever  been  their  firmest  de- 
fender and  warmest  advocate.  These  titles,  I  need  hardly 
add,  are  peculiarly  your  own.  Your  early  efforts  contributed 
much  to  raise  American  Literature  from  obscurity ;  and,  when 
its  enemies  could  no  longer  adHuee  fhe  plea  of  its  insignifi- 
cance,  and,  from  studied  contempt,  had  recourse  to  ^p^n 
malignity,  you  were  found  in  the  front  rank  of  its  defenders, 
hurling  back,  vigorously,  upon  the  assailants,  the  darts  of  ri- 
dicule and  satire.  And,  furthermore,  that  which  you  che- 
rished and  protected  in  its  infancy,  you  have  adorned  and 
amplified  in  its  maturer  years,  for  you  have  never  put  off  the 
garb  of  nationality,  nor  imbibed  those  foreign  prejudices 
which  would  fain  make  us  resign  our  truest  badge  of  inde- 
pendence. 

Your  generous  support  of  a  cause  hitherto  involving  mure 
honour  than  emolument,  has  given  you  a  claim  upon  the  re- 
gards of  all  who  cherish  national  sympathies,  to  which  I  am 
proud  to  add  my  personal  esteem,  founded  upon  a  sense  of 
your  moral  worth,  and  an  intimacy  fraught  with  delightful 
recollections.  These  entitle  me  to  subscribe  myself 
Dear  sir, 

Your  grateful  admirer, 

And  obedient  servant, 

Thk  Compiler. 


PREFACE. 


These  volumes  are  composed  of  a  number  of  pieces  from 
the  pens  of  many  popular  native  authors.  They  are  compi- 
led from  the  columns  of  the  New-york  Mirror,  a  periodical, 
whose  hold  upon  public  favour  will  excite  no  wonder,  when  we 
consider  the  names  and  literary  reputation  of  those  who  have 
laid  the  solid  basis  of  its  popularity.  Still  the  present  work 
is  but  an  experiment,  and  as  such  is  offered  to  the  public. 
Should  it  be  successful,  it  may  be  followed  by  another  com- 
pilation, drawn  from  a  similar  source.  So  numerous  and  r»o 
excellent  were  the  contributions  from  which  the  compiler  had 
to  choose,  that  he  experienced  the  greatest  difficulty  in  mak- 
ing a  selection  which  should  combine  literary  merit  with 
the  variety  necessary  to  sustain  a  due  interest  throughout. 
If  he  has  failed  in  this  point,  he  willingly  assumes  the  blame  ; 
if  the  casket  contain  not  the  imagined  treasure,  let  the  cen- 
sure be  bestowed  upon  him,  who,  having  the  charge  of  im- 
mense wealth,  has  doled  it  out  parsimoniously ;  and  let  not 
the  diamond  be  undervalued  for  want  of  taste  in  the  posses- 
sor. But,  guided  by  the  names  he  is  proud  to  show  to  a  dis- 
cerning public,  the  compiler  can  fear  no  failure,  since  he  could 
hardly  choose  amiss.  Among  these  will  be  recognised  many 
of  those  who  have  long  been  prominent  among  American 
authors.  Others,  whose  names  are  now  for  the  first  time 
made  public,  have  contributed  in  no  small  degree  to  the  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  of  American  readers,  under  various 
anonymous  addresses.  All  are  native  writers,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Miss  Fanny  Kemble  and  Tyrone  Power,  Esq., 
whose  highly  finished  and  popular  productions  the  compiler 
is  happy  to  place  side  by  side  with  those  of  his  countrymen. 


Vi  PREFACE. 

At  closing  these  prefatory  remarks,  an  apology  seems  due 
to  those  whose  names  are  prefixed  to  pieces  which  they  in 
the  first  instance  published  anonymously,  and  have  since  suf- 
fered to  remain  unclaimed.  To  such  the  compiler  would  say 
that  the  reputation  of  an  author  who  delights  and  edifies  the 
public,  and  beguiles  the  tedious  hours  of  anxiety  or  bodily 
pain,  is  of  too  expansive  and  incompressible  a  nature  to  be 
confined  within  the  bounds  which  undue  modesty  and  self- 
depreciation  would  prescribe  ; — its  tendency  is  to  rise  upward 
and  spread  itself  abroad  :  it  is  constantly  on  the  wing,  and 
seeking,  in  the  words  of  the  poet,  for  a  way 

Qua  se  quoque  possit 

Tollere  humo,  victorque  virum  volitare  per  ora . 

'f  he  cLio  io  cast  when  a  writer  intrusts  his  literary  venture 
to  the  chances  of  the  voyage,  and  as  well  might  the  fisher- 
man in  the  Arabian  Nights  have  hoped  to  inclose  the  gigan- 
tic genie  in  the  little  copper  vessel  after  the  liberated  spirit 
had  kicked  it  into  the  sea,  as  he  to  reduce  to  its  original  nar- 
row dimensions  the  full  grown  stature  of  his  reputation. 

The  compiler  thinks  proper  to  state  that  the  accompanying 
selection  was  made  with  the  permission  of  the  editors  of  the 
New-York  Mirror,  to  whom  he  is  happy  to  tender  his  grate- 
ful acknowledgments. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


Jonathan's  visit  to  the  Celestial  Empire — By  J.  K.  Paulding  13 
The  Rime  of  the  ancient  Coaster — By  Fitz-Greene  Hal- 

leck 34 

Steam— By  William  Cox 39 

Song  of  Marion's  Men — By  William  C.  Bryant          -         -  49 

— -  The  Main-Truck  ;  or  a  Leap  for  Life— By  William  Leggett  51 

Autumn — By  Miss  Fanny  Kemble 66 

^  Snorers — By  Theodore  S.  Fay 68 

Oh  Judah  ! — By  Prosper  M.  Wetmore      -         -         -         -  75 

The  Uneducated  Wife — By  Mrs.  Learned         ...  76 

Ballad— By  Mrs.  Emma  C.  Embury          -         -         -         -  115 

"^  The  little  hard-faced  old  Gentleman— By  Theodore  S.  Fay  117 

A  Health— By  Miss  Elizabeth  C.  Clinch  -        -        -        -  130 

Uncle  Zim,  and  Deacon  Pettibone — By  William  L.  Stone  132 

A  Poet's  Daughter — By  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  -         -         -  149 

Sketches  from  the  Springs — By  George  P.  Morris      -         -  152 

A  Lament — By  Miss  Fanny  Kemble         -         -         -         -  176 

An  Outline  Sketch— By  Theodore  S.  Fay          -         -         -  179 

Forgetfulness— By  Miss  Elizabeth  S.  Bogart     -         -         -  188 


H 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Benefactors — By  John  Howard  Payne      ...         -  191 

The  Miniature — By  George  P.  Morris       -         -         -         -  197 
'  Knickerbocker-Hall,  or  the  Origin  of  the  Baker's  Dozen — 

By  J.  K.  Paulding 198 

The  Robber— By  William  C.  Bryant        -        -        -         -  217 

The  Mysterious  Countess — By  C.  Stuart  -        -        -  220 

Two  Yards  of  Jaconet,  or  a  Husband — By  Jcimes  Gordon 

Bennett 232 

Editor's  Study— By  Theodore  S.  Fay       -         -         -         -  245 

The  Dismissed— By  George  P.  Morris     .         -         -         -  248 

The  Loves  of  an  Attorney — By  Enos  T.  Throop  Martin     -  250 
Lines  to   Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  Esq. — By  the   late   John 

Rodman  Drake,  M.  D. 260 

A  Sea- Piece — By  William  Gilmore  Symmes    -         -         -  264  ' 

West  Point— By  George  D.  Strong  ....  280 

A  Legend  of  Brick-House  Creek— By  William  P.  Hawes  282 

The  Little  Voyagers — By  the  Rev.  Dr.  Pise     -         -         -  308 

A  Night  at  the  French  Opera— By  N.  P.  Willis        -        -  309 


JONATHAN'S  VISIT 
TO   THE   CELESTIAL   EMPIRE 

BY  J    K.    PAULDING. 


Somewhere  about  the  year  1783,  Jonathan,  a- 
young  fellow  who  lived  away  down  east,  took  it 
into  his  head  to  make  a  voyage  to  Canton.  Ac- 
cordingly he  fitted  out  his  sloop,  a  tarnation  clever 
vessel  of  about  eighty  tons,  and  taking  a  crazy  old 
compass  for  his  guide,  his  two  cousins,  one  a  lad 
about  sixteen,  and  a  great  Newfoundland  dog  for 
his  crew,  and  a  couple  of  rusty  revolutionary  swords 
for  an  armament,  he  boldly  set  forth  on  a  voyage  to 
the  celestial  empire. 

Jonathan  was  a  mighty  cute  lad,  and  had  read  a 
little  or  so  about  the  great  devotion  of  the  Chinese 
to  the  herb  called  ginseng,  which  every  body  knows 
is  a  remedy  for  all  things.  He  happened  one  day 
to  hear  an  Indian  doctor  give  it  as  his  opinion  that 
a  certain  plant,  which  grew  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Jonathan's  natale  solum,  was  very  much  like  the 
famous  Chinese  panacea,  as  he  had  seen  it  descri- 
bed.    He  took  a  hint  from  this,  and  rather  guessed 

VOL.    I.  2 


14  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

he  would  cany  a  good  parcel  along  with  him  on 
speculation.  Accordingly  he  gathered  a  few  hun- 
dred weight,  dried,  and  stowed  it  away  in  one  of 
his  lockers,  under  the  cabin  floor. 

Providence,  which  seems  to  take  special  care  of 
>such  droll  fellows  as  Jonathan,  who  calculate  pretty 
consideiably  on  their  native  energies,  blessed  him 
with  fair  winds  and  good  weather  ;  his  old  compass 
behaved  to  admiration  ;  his  ancient  chart,  w^iich 
had  been  torn  into  fifty  thousand  pieces  and  pasted 
on  a  bit  of  tarpaulin,  proved  a  most  infallible  guide  ; 
and  some  how  or  other,  he  could  not  exactly  tell 
how,  he  plumped  his  sloop  right  into  Table  Bay, 
just  as  if  the  old  fellow  had  been  there  a  hundred 
times  before. 

The  dutch  harbor-master  was  sitting  under  his 
hat  on  his  piazza,  when  he  beheld,  through  the 
smoke  of  his  pipe,  his  strange  apparition  of  a  ves- 
sel, scudding  like  a  bird  into  the  bay.  He  took  it 
for  the  famous  Flying  Dutchman,  and  such  was 
his  trepidation,  that  he  stuck  his  pipe  into  his  but- 
ton-hole without  knocking  out  the  ashes,  whereby 
he  burnt  a  hole  in  his  waistcoat.  When  Jonathan 
roimded  to,  and  came  to  anchor,  the  harbor-master 
ventured  to  go  on  board  to  get  information  con- 
cerning this  strange  little  barque.  He  could  talk 
English,  Dutch  fashion,  for  indeed  he  had  been 
promoted  to  the  office  on  account  of  his  skill  in 
languages. 

"  Whence  came  you,  Mynheer  ?"  quoth  he. 

''  Right  off  the  reel  from  old  Salem,  I  guess,'' 
replied  Jonathan. 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  15 

*'  Old  Salem — whereabouts  is  dat  den  ?  I  tout 
know  any  sich  place  about  here." 

"  I  guess  not.     What's  your  name,  squire  V 

"  Hans  Ollenbockenoffenhaflengraphensteiner  ish 
niy  name." 

"  Whew  !  why  it's  as  long  as  a  pumpkin  vine — 
now  aint  it  ?" 

"  But  whereabouts  ish  dish  blaslie  3^ou  speague 
of?"  reiterated  the  harbor-master. 

"  O,  it's  some  way  off — about  six  or  eight  thou- 
sand miles  down  west  there." 

'•  Six  tousand  duyvels  !"  muttered  Hans  with  the 
long  name.  "  Do  you  tink  I  vill  pclieve  such  a  cog 
and  pullsh  tory  as  dat,  Mynheer  ?" 

'•  If  you  don't  J^elieve  me,  ask  my  two  cousins 
there — and  if  you  don't  believe  them,  ask  my  dog. 
I  tell  you  I  come  riglit  straight  from  old  Salem,  in 
the  United  States  of  Amerrykey." 

•'•  United  Sthaites  of  vat  ?  I  never  heard  of  any 
United  Sthaites  but  de  Sthaites  of  Hollant." 

"  Ah — I  suppose  not — they've  jist  been  christened 
I  'spose  now,  likely  you've  never  heard  of  the  new 
w^orld  neither,  have  you  mister — w^iat's  yoiu*  name?'' 

■'  Hans  Olleiibockenoffenhaffengraphensteiner — 
I  told  you  zo  pefore." 

"  Maybe  you'll  have  to  tell  me  again  before  I 
know^  it  by  heart,  I  calculate.  But  did  you  never 
hear  of  the  new  Avorld,  squire?" 

"  Not  I — ant  if  I  hat,  I  voukVnt  hafe  pelieved  it- 
Tare  ish  no  new  vorlt  zinze  de  tiscovery  of  de 
Oape  of  Good  Hoop  dat  I  know.  Put,  gome  along? 
you  must  co  vid  me  to  de  gubernador.  " 


1(5  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

Jonathan  puzzled  the  governor  about  as  much 
as  he  had  done  the  harbor-master.  But  his  papers 
were  all  fair  and  above  board,  and  tlie  governor  had 
not  only  heard  of  the  new  world,  but  of  the  United 
States  of  Amerrykey ,  as  Jonathan  called  them.  Ac- 
cordingly he  was  permitted  to  enjoy  all  the  privileges 
of  the  port. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  \Vonder  and  curiosity 
excited  by  the  vessel  among  the  people  at  the 
Cape.  That  he  should  have  made  a  voyage  of 
so  many  thousand  miles,  with  such  a  crew  and 
such  an  outfit,  was,  in  their  opinion,  little  less 
than  miraculous  j  and  the  worthy  governor  could 
only  account  for  it  by  the  aid  of  witchcraft,  which, 
he  had  somewhere  been  told,  abounded  in  the  new 
world.  Jonathan  was  the  greatest  man,  and  his 
dog  the  greatest  dog  at  the  Cape.  He  dined  with 
the  governor  and  burgomasters  ;  cracked  his  jokes 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  danced  with  the 
Hottentots,  and  might  have  married  a  rich  Dutch 
damsel  of  five  hundred  weight,  and  five  thousand 
ducats  a  year,  provided  he  would  have  given  up 
old  Salem  forever. 

After  partaking  of  the  hospitalities  of  the  Ca])e 
a  few  days,  Jonathan  began  to  be  in  a  hurry  to 
prosecute  his  voyage.  He  knew  the  value  of  time 
as  well  as  money.  On  the  sixth  day  he  accord- 
ingly set  sail  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, taking  with  him  a  hippopotamus,  an  ourang 
outang,  and  six  ring-tailed  monkeys,  all  of  which 
he  had  bought  on  speculation.  One  of  his  cousins 
had,  however,  been  so  smitten   with  the  country 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  IJ 

about  the  Cape,  or  with  the  charms  of  a  httle 
Dutch  maiden,  that  he  determined  to  stay  behind, 
marry,  and  improve  the  inhabitants — on  specula- 
nation.  A  Dutch  sailor  offered  to  supply  his  place, 
but  Jonathan  dechned,  saying  he  guessed  his  other 
cousin  and  the  Newfoundland  dog,  who  was  a  pretty 
particular  cute  kritter,  could  sail  his  sloop  quite  round 
the  world  and  back  again. 

Not  much  of  interest  occuned  during  the  voyage 
until  he  arrived  at  Macao,  where  he  excited  the 
same  astonishment,  underwent  the  same  scrutiny, 
returned  the  same  satisfactory  answers,  and  came 
off  as  triumphantly  as  he  did  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope.  While  here,  he  saw  every  thing,  inquired 
about  every  thing,  and  went  every  where.  Among 
other  adventures,  he  one  day  accompanied  his  cou- 
sin in  a  fishing-boat,  to  see  if  they  fished  as  the 
people  did  on  the  banks  of  Newfoundland.  Un- 
fortunately a  violent  storm  came  on ;  some  of  the 
boats  were  lost,  and  their  crews  drowned.  The 
survivors  went  and  offered  up  some  of  tlieir  pad- 
dles at  the  great  temple  of  Neang-ma-ko.  Those 
that  were  able  added  some  matches  and  gilt  paper. 
Jonathan's  other  cousin  here  determined  to  stay 
behind  at  Macao.  It  occuned  to  him  he  might 
make  a  speculation  by  curing  the  fish  after  the 
manner  of  mackerel.  Jonathan  did  not  much 
like  this,  but  he  said  "  never  mind,  I  partly  guess  I 
can  do  without  him." 

Jonathan  had  now  no  one  but  his  Newfoundland 
dog  to  assist  in  the  navigation  of  his  sloop.  But  he 
thought  to  himself,  his  vovage  was  almost  at  an  end, 

2* 


18  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

and,  at  all  events,  if  he  hired  any  of  the  Macao  peo- 
ple, they  would  he  offering  up  matches  and  gilt  paper 
to  Neang-ma-ko,  instead  of  minding  their  business. 
So  he  set  sail  for  Canton,  the  Chinese  prognostica- 
ting he  would  go  to  the  bottom,  because  he  did  not 
make  an  offering  to  Neang-ma-ko,  and  the  Portu- 
guese that  he  would  go  to  the  devil,  because  he  did  not 
pay  his  devoirs  to  the  virgin. 

At  Lin-Tin  he  was  taken  for  a  smuggler  of 
opium  l)y  some,  and  for  a  magician  by  others,  when 
they  saw  his  vessel,  heard  where  he  hailed  from, 
and  became  convinced  that  his  whole  crew  consisted 
of  a  Newfoundland  dog.  The  commander  of  the 
fleet  of  ships  of  war  stationed  at  Lin-Tin,  to  prevent 
the  smuggUng  of  opium  into  the  celestial  empire, 
seized  the  sloop,  and  devoted  its  brave  commander 
to  the  indignation  of  the  mighty  emperor,  who  is 
brother  to  the  sun  and  moon.  Hereupon  Jonathan 
bethought  himself  of  a  piece  of  the  herb  he  had 
brought  with  him  and  had  in  his  pocket.  '•  It  is  a 
mighty  good  chance,"  thought  he,  "  to  try  if  it's  the 
identical  thing.*'  Accordingly  he  took  a  convenient 
opportunity  of  presenting  to  the  valiant  commander 
a  bit  about  as  big  as  his  finger.  The  admiral, 
whose  name  was  Tizzy-Wizzy-Twang-Lang,  stared 
at  him  at  first  with  astonishment,  then  at  the  pre- 
sent with  almost  dismay,  and  thrusting  it  into  his 
pocket,  immediately  caused  it  to  be  proclaimed  that 
the  '-  foreign  Imrbarian"  was  innocent  of  the  crime, 
or  the  intention  of  smuggling  opium,  and  might  go 
any  where  he  pleased.  Tizzy-Wizzy-Twang- 
Lang  then  sat  down  and  wrote  a  despatch  to  the 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  J9 

governor  of  Canton,  stating  that  he  had  routed  the 
"  foreign  barbarians,"  destroyed  their  fleet,  and 
thrown  all  their  opium  overboard.  After  which  he 
shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin  and  took  a  morsel  of 
the  treasure  Jonathan  had  presented  him,  about  as 
large  as  the  head  of  a  pin.  It  is  astonishing  how 
much  better  he  felt  afterwards. 

In  the  mean  while  Jonathan  had  set  sail,  and 
was  ploughing  his  way  towards  Canton,  with  a  fair 
wind  and  a  good  prospect  of  making  a  great  specu- 
lation, for  lie  had  ascertained  to  a  certainty  that  the 
article  he  had  brought  with  him  was  the  real  gin- 
seng, which  was  worth  five  times  its  w^eight  in  gold. 
He  went  ashore  at  the  village  of  Ho-tun,  where  he 
saw  the  people  catching  wild  ducks  and  geese 
which  they  fatten  by  feeding  in  the  dark.  '•  That's 
a  good  hint,"  said  Jonathan,  shutting  one  eye,  "  and 
ni  tell  the  folks  at  old  Salem,"  While  he  was 
walking  about,  seeing  into  every  thing,  he  was  un- 
expectedly saluted  by  a  shower  of  stones  from  a 
parcel  of  children,  with  their  hair  sticking  up  behind 
like  two  horns.  Jonathan  thousfht  this  tarnation 
ungenteel ;  but  he  prudently  suppressed  his  anger, 
considering  he  was  in  a  strange  country,  and  was 
come  to  try  his  fortune. 

•'  May  I  be  buttered,"  quoth  Jonathan,  as  he  ap- 
proached Canton,  and  saw^  the  countless  boats  moor- 
ed in  streets  on  the  river,  or  flitting  about  in  every 
direction — "  may  I  be  buttered,  if  here  isn't  a  city  all 
afloat.     This  beats  all  nater !" 

And  sure  enough,  here  was  a  scene  that  might 
have  made  one  of  our  Indians  w^onder.     The  whole 


20  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

world' seemed  on  the  water.  Junks,  with  two  eyes 
staring  at  the  bows — canal-boats,  flower-boats,  plea- 
sure-boats, and  boats  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions, 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  people,  lay  moored  in  regular 
streets,  or  were  moving  about  to  and  fro  in  every 
direction,  painted  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
and  ornamented  with  gold  leaf  and  grinning  mon- 
sters having  no  prototypes  in  nature,  or  any  where 
else  but  in  the  grotesque  imagination  of  the  artists 
of  the  celestial  empire. 

The  busy  activity  of  some  of  these  boats  was 
sinsrularlv  contrasted  with  the  luxurious  ease  of 
others,  in  which  might  be  seen  a  couple  of  Chinese 
dandies  reclining  on  mats  and  resting  their  heads 
on  bamboo  pillows,  with  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
either  listlessly  contemplating  the  scene  before  them, 
or  gazing  with  lack-lustre  eye  on  the  picture  of  some 
favorite  beauty  with  penciled  eyebrows,  nails  like  a 
tio"er.  and  feet  almost  invisible.  Others  were  per- 
forming the  ceremony  of  chin-chin-jos,  which  con- 
sists in  throwing  bits  of  bm-ning  paper  into  the 
water,  while  the  din  of  innumerable  gongs  contri- 
buted a  species  of  music  to  the  scene  that  made 
honest  Jonathan  stop  his  ears  in  reverential  dismay. 

When  our  adventurer  moored  his  sloop  at  Wham- 
poa,  in  the  midst  of  a  fleet  of  vast  ships,  of  almost 
all  the  nations  of  Europe,  they  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  her.  All  he  could  say  failed  in  con- 
vincing them  that  he  had  come  from  such  a  long 
distance,  in  such  a  vessel,  navigated  by  such  a  crew. 
Besides,  what  could  have  brought  him  to  Canton? 
He  had  neither  money  to  purchase,  nor  cargo  to  ex- 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  2I 

change  for  Chinese  commodities,  except  it  miglit 
be  his  river  horse,  his  oiirang-outang,  and  hi? 
monkeys. 

Jonathan  kept  his  own  secret.  He  had  heard 
that  the  Chinese  were  as  sharp  as  the  "  leetle  end  of 
nothing  whittled  down,"  and  determined  to  be  as 
sharp  as  the  best  of  them.  Accordingly  nothing 
could  be  got  out  of  him,  except,  that  he  liad  come 
on  his  own  l)ottom,  and  meant  to  turn  a  penny 
some  how  or  other.  He  said  nothing  about  his  gin- 
seng, which  he  had,  as  I  before  stated,  stowed  away 
in  a  secret  locker. 

The  story  of  the  strange  man  and  the  strange 
vessel  that  had  been  navigated  from  the  new  world 
by  a  man  and  a  dog,  made  a  great  noise,  and 
thousands  flocked  to  see  them.  The  gentleman 
who  officiated  as  American  consul,  without,  how- 
ever, having  a  regular  appointment,  behaved  in  the 
most  kind  and  friendly  manner  to  Jonathan,  and 
introduced  him  to  a  hong,  or  as  our  hero  called  him, 
a  himg-mevchRnt,  who  undertook  to  do  liis  business 
for  him,  that  is,  if  he  had  any  to  do,  which  seemed 
rather  doubtful. 

'•'  I  chin-chin  you,"  said  Fat-qua,  the  hongman. 

"You  don't  now,  do  you?"  quoth  Jonathan. 
"  Well  then,  I  chin-chin  you,  and  so  we  are  even,  I 
guess." 

Fat-qua  was  very  anxious  to  know  all  about 
Jonathan's  business  ;  but  the  Chinese  were  such 
plaguy  slippery  fellows,  he  was  afraid  to  trust  them 
with  his  secret.  He  therefore,  very  gravely,  and 
with  infinite  simplicity,  commended  to  him  liis  cargo 


22  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

of  live  stock,  begged  he  would  dispose  of  them  to 
the  best  advantage,  and  invest  the  proceeds  in  a 
cargo  of  notions.  Fat-qua  did  not  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  be  angry — however,  he  concluded  b}' 
laughing,  and  promising  to  do  his  best. 

The  trifle  which  Jonathan  brought  with  him  had 
been  all  expended  in  maintaining  himself  and  his 
dog,  and  Fat-qua  did  not  feel  inclined  to  advance 
an)^  on  the  security  of  his  live  stock.  This  being 
the  case,  Jonathan  one  day  brought  a  pound  or  two 
of  his  ginseng,  and  asked  him  carelessly  what  it 
might  be  Ukely  worth  in  these  parts  ? 

-'  Hi  yah  !"  exclaimed  the  hong-merchant  in  as- 
tonishment. "  No,  have  got  some  more  of  he — 
hi  yah?" 

"  Some  small  matter — not  much,"  said  Jonathan, 
who  was  of  opinion  if  he  displayed  the  whole  par- 
cel at  once,  it  might  lower  the  price  and  injure  his 
speculation. 

Fat-qua  disposed  of  the  two  pounds  of  ginseng 
for  a  thumping  sum,  which  Jonathan  pocketed  in 
less  than  no  time,  and  chuckled  in  his  sleeve,  as  he 
thought  of  the  means  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  at  the 
same  rate.  A  day  or  two  after,  he  delivered  the 
hong-merchant  a  few  pounds  more,  which  he  said 
he  had  accidentally  found  in  a  place  where  he  had 
stowed  away  and  forgot  it. 

'•  Hi  yah  !  Missee  Joe  Netting,  I  chin-chin  you." 
And  he  began  to  have  a  great  respect  for  Missee  Joe 
Notting. 

In  this  way,  by  slow  degrees,  did  friend  Jonathan 
brin^  forth  his  hoard  of  hidden  treasures,  till  it  was 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  23 

all  disposed  of,  and  he  found  himself  in  possession 
of  almost  half  a  million  of  dollars ;  for,  it  is  to  be 
recollected,  this  happened  long  before  the  value  of 
ginseng  was  brought  down  to  almost  nothing  by 
the  large  quantities  carried  to  China,  in  consequence 
of  the  successful  speculation  of  Jonathan. 

Every  time  he  produced  a  new  lot,  he  declared  it 
was  all  he  had  left,  and  consequently,  to  the  last 
moment  the  price  was  kept  up.  Fat-qua  began  to 
beheve  that  Joe  Notting  had  discovered  some  hidden 
place  where  it  grew,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Can- 
ton, or  that  he  dealt  with  the  prince  of  darkness. 
He  accordingly  caused  him  to  be  watched,  but  our 
hero  was  too  wide  awake  for  the  hong-merchant. 

"  Hi  yah  !  Missee  Joe  Notting — some  yet  more — 
when  you  shall  tink  shall  you  no  more  have — hey  ? 
Every  day  here  come  you — say  the  last  is  he — hi 
yah  !     I  tink  no  last  come  forever." 

"  I  han't  another  stick  to  save  my  gizzard,"  said 
Jonathan,  and  this  time  he  spoke  like  a  man  of 
honor.  He  had  at  last  sold  out  his  hoard,  with  the 
exception  of  a  small  parcel  for  presents,  and  to  use 
on  an  emergency. 

Jonathan  was  now  thinking  he  would  gather 
himself  together,  and  point  his  bowsprit  strut  to- 
wards home.  But  first  he  determined  to  see  about 
him,  for  he  expected  to  be  asked  a  heap  of  questions 
when  he  got  amongst  his  old  neighbors  ;  and  not  to 
be  able  to  tell  them  all  about  the  celestial  empire, 
would  be  to  show  he  had  httle  or  no  gumption. 

He  accordingly  visited  the  fajnous  flower  garden 
of  Fa-Tee,  where  he  saw  a  vast  collection  of  the 
most  beautiful  flowers,  and  roses  o''  all  colors.    Re- 


24  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

turning,  he  passed  through  the  suburb  of  Ho- 
Nam,  where  he  was  called  Fan-kwei,  which  means 
'•  foreign  devil,"  and  pelted  handsomely  with  stones, 
according  to  the  hospitable  custom  of  the  inhabitants. 
Jonathan  was  now  so  rich,  that  he  felt  himself  a 
different  man  from  what  he  was  when  the  boys  pelted 
him  at  the  village  of  Ho-tun.  He  had  moreover  seen 
the  bamboo  so  hberally  employed  on  the  backs  of  the 
Chinese  by  their  own  officers  and  magistrates,  that 
he  thought  he  might  make  use  himself  of  this  uni- 
versal panacea  for  all  offences  in  the  celestial  empire. 
Accordingly,  he  sallied  forth  among  these  inhospita- 
ble rogues,  and  plied  his  stick  so  vigorously  that  the 
rabble  fled  before  him, crying  out  *'Fan-kwei !"  and 
making  motions  significant  of  cutting  off  the  head, 
as  much  as  to  say  that  would  be  his  end  at  last. 
The  reader  must  know  that  beheading  is  considered 
the  most  disgraceful  of  all  punishments  in  the  ce- 
lestial empire,  where  they  do  every  thing  differently 
from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

A  formal  complaint  was  laid  before  the  Gan-chat- 
sze,  a  minister  of  justice  at  Canton,  against  the  Fan- 
kwei,  who  had  feloniously  bambooed  the  mob  of  Ho- 
Nam.  Fat-qua,  one  of  our  hero's  securities,  was 
taken  into  custody  till  his  forthcoming,  and  an  ex- 
press sent  off  to  Pekin  to  announce  the  intelligence 
to  the  brother  of  the  sun  and  moon,  that  a  Fan- 
kwei  had  beaten  at  least  two  hundred  of  his  valiant 
and  invincible  subjects,  who  could  not  bring  them- 
selves to  soil  their  fingers  by  touching  even  the 
clothes  of  a  foreign  barbarian. 

Jonathan  was  soon  arrested,  and  being  carried 
before  the  illustrious  Gan-chat-sze,  was  astonished 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  25 

at  seeing  the  infinite  mischief  he  had  done.  Tliere 
was  one  poor  man  who  had  his  eye  put  out ;  ano- 
ther his  head  fractured  ;  a  third  his  arm  broken  ; 
and  what  was  worse  than  all  this,  three  children 
were  so  disabled  that  they  could  not  stand,  all  by 
Jonathan's  bamboo,  which  was  about  as  thick  as 
your  finger. 

This  was  a  serious  business  for  a  Fan-kwei. 
But  his  friend  Fat-qua  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"  Hi  yah — Missee  Joe  Notting — 3^ou  some  more 
have  got  of  that  grand — Hi  yah  !  You  stand  under 
me — hey  ?" 

Jonathan  tipped  him  a  knowing  wink,  and  Fat- 
qua  then  crept  close  to  the  ear  of  the  incorruptible 
Gan-chat-sze,  and  whispered  him  in  like  manner : 
but  what  he  said  being  only  intended  for  the  ear  of 
justice,  must  not  be  disclosed.  The  effect,  however 
was  miraculous,  the  Gan-chat-sze  forthwith  started 
up  in  a  mighty  passion,  and,  seizing  his  bamboo, 
attacked  the  complainants  in  the  suit  with  such 
wonderful  vigor,  that  he  actually  performed  a  mira- 
cle, and  restored  every  one  of  them  to  the  use  of 
their  limbs.  After  this,  he  discharged  the  ofTendev 
with  a  caution,  which  Fat-qua  translated  into  ex- 
cellent English,  and  the  next  day  Jonathan  sent 
him  by  the  hands  of  the  same  discreet  friend  a 
pound  of  ginseng. 

"  Hi  yah  !  Missee  Joe — more  some  yet,  hey !  Be- 
lieve him  make  him  as  him  go  along — Hi  yah ! 
Chin-chin  you,  Missee  Joe  Notting." 

Fat-qua  was  determined  to  signalize  this  triumph 

VOL.  I.  3 


25  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 


1 


of  Chinese  justice  ovei  prejudice  against  foreignere, 
by  a  great  feast  of  bears-claws,  birds-nests,  and  all 
the  delicacies  of  the  east.  He,  therefore,  invited  a 
number  of  the  Fan-kweis  about  the  factory,  to  meet 
Jonathan  at  his  country-seat,  near  the  gardens  of 
Fa-Te,  and  they  had  a  jolly  time  of  it.  Our  hero 
was  comphmented  with  a  pair  of  chop-sticks  of  the 
most  elegant  construction  and  materials,  which  he 
managed  with  such  skill,  that,  by  the  time  the  din- 
ner was  over,  he  was  well  nigh  starved  to  death. 

The  hong-merchant,  Fat-cjua,  was  a  jolly  little 
fellow,  "about  knee-high  to  a  toad,"  as  Jonathan 
used  to  say,  and  fond  of  a  good  glass  of  wine.  He 
plied  his  guests  pretty  neatly,  until  they  began  to 
feel  a  little  top-heavy,  and  sailed  away  one  by  one 
under  rather  high  steam,  leaving  Jonathan  and  his 
friend  alone  together,  the  latter  fast  asleep.  Jona- 
than was  by  this  time  in  high  feather,  and  thouglit 
this  would  be  a  good  time  to  take  a  peep  at  the  es- 
tablishment of  his  friend,  that  he  might  know  some- 
thing of  these  matters  when  he  got  home. 

He  arose  without  disturbing  the  little  fat  gentle- 
man, and  proceeded  to  penetrate  into  the  interior  of 
the  house,  until  he  came  to  the  female  apartments, 
in  one  of  which  he  saw  a  young  lady  smoking,  to 
whom  he  paid  his  compliments  with  a  low  bow. 
Her  pipe  was  formed  of  slender  pieces  of  bamboo, 
highly  polished,  with  a  bowl  of  silver  and  a  mouth- 
piece of  amljer.  Her  hair  was  beautifully  long,  and 
tastefully  dressed  with  flowers  and  gold  and  silver 
bodkins,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  room  was 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  27 

perfumed  with  jasmine  and  other  odoriferous  plants 
and  shrubs.  By  her  side  lay  a  guitar,  on  which  she 
seemed  to  have  been  playing. 

The  entrance  of  Jonathan  threw  her  into  great 
confusion,  and  she  uttered  several  violent  screams, 
whicli  however  brought  no  one  to  her  assistance. 
The  illustrious  Fat-qua  was  still  sleeping  in  his  seat, 
and  the  servants  making  merry  as  usual  with  the  re- 
mains of  the  feast.  .Jonathan  attempted  an  apology 
for  his  intrusion,  but  the  more  he  apologized  the 
louder  the  young  lady  screamed.  Jonathan  won- 
dered what  could  be  the  matter  with  her. 

"  Well,  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  this  growing 
among  corn — what's  come  over  the  gal  ?  May  I  be 
chiselled  if  I  don't  think  she's  afeard  I'll  eat  her. 
But  why  the  dickens,  if  she's  frightened,  don't  she 
scamper  off,  that  being  the  most  nat'ral  way  of 
getting  out  of  danger."  Jonathan  did  not  know  the 
feet  of  the  poor  young  damsel  were  not  more  than 
two  inches  and  a  half  long,  and  that  sire  could  no 
more  run  than  lly.  They  were  what  the  Chinese 
poets  call  a  couple  of  "  golden  lilies." 

Encouraged  by  this  notion,  that  her  pretending  to 
be  frightened  was  all  sheer  affectation,  he  approach- 
ed her  still  nearer,  took  up  the  guitar,  and  begged 
her  to  play  him  a  tune,  such  as  '^  Yankee  Doodle,'' 
or  any  thing  of  that  sort  that  was  pretty  easily  man- 
aged, for  he  did  not  much  admire  any  of  your  fine 
fashionable  gimcracks.  Jonathan  was  a  plaguy 
neat  kind  of  a  chap — as  handsome  a  lad  as  might 
be  seen  ;  tall  and  straight,  with  blue  eyes,  white 


28  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

forehead,  and  red  cheeks,  a  httle  rusted  to  be  sure 
with  the  voyage. 

The  pretty  creature  with  the  little  feet,  w^hose 
name  was  Shangtshee,  ventured  at  last  to  look  at 
this  impudent  intruder,  and,  sooth  to  say,  he  did  not 
appear  so  terrible  at  the  second  glance  as  at  the  first. 
{She  smiled,  and  put  out  her  small  foot  for  Jonathan 
to  admire.  She  then  took  her  guitar  and  played 
him  a  tune — it  was  not  "Yankee  Doodle"  to  be  sure, 
but  it  rather  pleased  Jonathan,  for  he  declared  it 
beat  all,  he'd  be  switched  if  it  didn't.  Shangtshee 
seemed  to  understand  the  compliment,  for  she  smiled 
and  put  out  her  other  golden  hly,  I  suppose  to  show 
Jonathan  she  had  a  pair  of  them.  Jonathan  ad- 
mired the  pipe  ;  she  handed  it  to  him,  he  put  it  to 
his  lips,  and  giving  it  back  again,  she  put  it  to  her 
lips,  which  our  hero  finally  concluded  came  as  near 
to  kissing  as  twopence  to  a  groat. 

"Howthekritter  blushes,"  thought  Jonathan.  He 
did  not  know  she  was  painted  half  an  inch  thick 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Chinese  ladies.  As  they  sat 
thus  exchanging  little  pleasant  civilities,  which, 
innocent  as  they  were,  endangered  both  their  lives, 
they  were  alarmed,  at  least  the  lady — for  Jonathan 
had  never  particularly  studied  Chinese  customs — 
by  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  at  some  short  distance,  in 
the  garden.  It  approached  nearer,  and.  in  a  few 
minutes,  seemed  directly  under  the  window  of  the 
apartment.  Shangtshee  appeared  greatly  agitated, 
and  begged  Jonathan  by  signs  to  depart  the  way  he 
came.    But  Jonathan  had  no  notion  of  being  scared 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  gg 

by  a  tune,  and  declined  to  budge  an  inch.  It  was  a 
nice  tune,  and  he  didnt  much  mind  if  he  heard 
another  just  hke  it. 

Presently  the  music  ceased,  and  all  at  once  tlie 
young  Shangtshee  screamed  a  scream  almost  as 
loud  as  the  former  ones.  "  What  can  have  got  into 
the  curious  varmint  now,  I  wonder  ?"  quoth  Jona- 
than. He  httle  suspected  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  face  of  her  lover  through  the  blinds.  This  young 
man  was  called  Yu-min-hoo,  which  signifies  fea- 
thered. I^ecause  he  was  a  great  poet,  and  took  such 
high  flights  that  his  meaning  was  sometimes  quite 
out  of  sight.  He  always  carried  an  ink-l3ottle  sus- 
pended to  his  button,  a  bamboo  pen  stuck  behind 
liis  ear,  and  a  book  under  his  arm,  in  which  he  wrote 
down  his  thoughts  that  none  might  escape  him.  He 
made  verses  upon  Shangtshee,  in  which  he  com- 
pared her  to  a  dish  of  bear's  claws,  since  her  nails 
were  at  least  six  inches  long,  and  she  was  a  delicacy 
w^hich  the  epicure  might  admire  every  day  in  the 
year.  It  was  this  sentiment  wliich  he  had  set  to 
music  and  sung  on  this  eventful  evening  under  the 
window  of  his  mistress. 

Yu-min-hoo  was  petrified  when  he  saw  his 
Shangtshee  sitting  so  cosily  by  the  side  of  a  Fan- 
kwei,  which,  as  I  said  before,  means  foreign  devil. 
His  indignation  was  terrible  and  his  jealousy  prodi- 
gious. He  had  thoughts  of  sitting  down  by  the 
light  of  the  moon  and  writing  a  furious  ode,  con- 
signing the  Fan-kwei  to  all  the  Chinese  devils, 
which  are  the  ugliest  in  the  world.  Even  their 
3* 


30  jonathajS'S  visit  to 

gods  are  monsters,  what  then  must  the  others  be  ? 
On  second  thoughts,  however,  Yu-min-hoo  restrain- 
ed his  muse,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  they  heard 
the  clatter  of  his  wooden  shoes  gradually  receding. 
Shangtshee  again  entreated  with  her  eyes,  her 
hands,  nay,  her  very  feet,  that  Jonathan  would 
make  himself  scarce.  The  tears  lan  down  her 
cheeks,  and  like  torrents  of  rain  wore  deep  channels 
in  them  that  almost  spoiled  their  beauty. 

Jonathan  tried  all  he  could  to  comfort  her,  when 
what  was  his  surprise  and  indignation  at  her  base 
ingratitude,  he  was  saluted  with  a  scratch  of  those 
long  nails  that  constitute  the  most  unequivocal  claim 
of  a  Chinese  lady  to  rank.  It  was  a  scratch  so  em- 
phatic and  well-directed,  that  every  nail,  and  most 
especially  the  little  finger  nail,  left  its  mark  on  his 
cheek,  and  it  was  preceded  and  followed  by  a  scream 
of  the  highest  pretensions. 

Our  hero  was  astounded  at  this  salutation.  He 
had  heard  of  love  taps,  but  never  of  such  as  these. 
But  he  soon  understood  the  whole  squinting  of  the 
business  as  slick  as  a  w^histle,  when  he  saw  little 
Fat-qua  standing  before  him  breathing  fire  and 
looking  fury  from  his  dark  sharp-cornered  eyes. 

"  Hi  yah  ! — Missee  Joe  Notting — spose  tink  you 
daughter  my  one  flower-woman — hey?"' 

Jonathan  endeavoured  to  convince  Fat-qua  that 
there  was  not  the  least  harm  in  sitting  by  the  side 
of  a  young  woman  in  a  civil  way — that  it  was  done 
in  his  country  everyday  in  the  year,  particularly  on 
Sundays — -and  that  the  women  there  were  quite  as 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  31 

good  as  the  Chinese,  though  they  did  not  wear 
wooden  shoes,  and  nails  six  inches  long. 

Fat-qua  was  Avroth  at  this  indecorous  comparison 
uf  tlie  Fan-kwei  ladies  with  those  of  the  celestial 
empire :  he  ordered  his  servants  to  seize  Jonathan 
as  a  violator  of  Chinese  etiquette,  and  a  calumniator 
of  wooden  shoes  and  long  nails.  He  determined  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  heart  to  have  him  immediately 
before  the  worshipful  Gan-chat-sze,  who  would  not 
fail  to  squeeze  some  of  his  dollars  out  of  him. 

But  further  reflection  induced  him  to  abandon 
this  course.  He  recollected,  when  the  fumes  of  the 
wine  were  somewhat  dissipated,  that  both  himself 
and  his  daughter  would  be  disgraced  and  dishon- 
ored if  it  were  publicly  known  that  she  had  been 
in  company  with  a  Fan-kwei,  a  stain  of  the  deepest 
dye  according  to  the  statutes  of  the  celestial  empire, 
in  any  but  common  women.  The  only  way,  there- 
fore, was  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  business.  Ac- 
cordingly he  bribed  his  servants  to  secrecy — mar- 
ried his  daugliter  to  the  poet — and  swore  never  to 
invite  another  Missee  Joe  Notting  to  dine  with  him 
so  long  as  there  Avas  a  woman  in  his  house.  He  had 
never,  he  said,  met  Avith  a  fellow^  of  this  chop  before. 

Various  were  the  other  adventures  of  our  hero, 
which  are  forever  incorporated  in  the  annals  of  the 
celestial  empire,  where  he  figures  as  the  "Great  Fan- 
kwei,  Joe  Notting."  My  Umits  will  not  suffice  to  par- 
ticularize them  all,  else  would  I  record  how  he  was 
fined  a  thousand  dollars  by  his  old  friend,  Gan-chat- 
sze,  for  bambooing  a  valiant  sentinel  who  refused 


32  JONATHAN'S  VISIT  TO 

to  let  liim  enter  the  gates  of  Canton  without  a  bribe ; 
how  his  river-horse,  being  tired  of  confinement,  took 
an  opportunity  to  jump  overboard,  whereby  he  upset 
a  boat  and  came  nigh  drowning  the  passengers. 
This  cost  him  three  thousand  dollars  more.  His 
next  adventure  was  picking  up  the  body  of  a 
drowned  man  in  the  river  one  evening,  in  passing 
between  his  sloop  and  the  shore,  whose  murder  he 
was  found  guilty  of  before  Gan-chat-sze,  who  kindly 
let  him  off  for  ten  thousand  dollars  ;  advising  him 
at  the  same  time  through  the  hong-merchant,  Fat- 
qua,  to  take  the  earliest  oppovtmiity  of  making  him- 
self invisible  within  the  precincts  of  the  celestial 
empire. 

'•  I  partly  guess  I'll  take  his  advice,  and  pull  up 
stakes,'"  said  Jonathan.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  tar- 
nal  place.  It  beats  every  thing,  I  swow.  Why, 
squire  Fat-qua,  Til  tell  you  what — if  you'll  only 
come  to  our  parts,  you  may  go  jist  where  you 
please — do  jist  as  you  please — and  talk  to  the  gals 
as  much  as  you  please.  I'll  be  choked  if  it  isn't 
true,  by  the  living  hokey." 

"  Hi  yah  !  Missee  Joe  Notting,"  replied  Fat  qua, 
"  she  must  be  some  very  fine  place,  dat  Merrykey." 

"  There  you  are  right,  squire.  But,  good  by  ;  I 
finally  conclude  it's  best  to  cut  stick.  They're 
plaguy  slippery  fellows  here ;  if  they  aint,  may  I 
be  licked  by  a  chap  under  size." 

Jonathan  received  the  remainder  of  bin  money, 
which  he  was  then  earnestly  advised  to  invest  in 


THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE.  33 

bills,  and  at  the  same  time  to  sell  his  vessel,  and 
embark  for  home  in  a  safer  conveyance. 

"  D'ye  think  I'm  a  fellow  of  no  more  gumption 
than  that  ?"  said  he.  '•  I'll  be  darned  if  there's  a 
tighter  safer  thing  than  my  old  sloop  ever  sailed 
across  the  salt  sea ;  and  as  for  your  paper  money, 
I've  had  enough  of  that  in  my  own  country  in 
my  time." 

He  dechned  shipping  a  crew,  for  he  said  he  must 
trust,  in  that  case,  to  strangers  ;  and  he  thought  to 
himself  that  he  could  easily  induce  his  two  cousins 
to  go  home  with  him  now  he  was  so  rich.  It  hap- 
})ened  as  he  had  anticipated ;  both  gladly  rejoined 
him  again,  each  having  failed  in  his  speculation. 
The  Dutchmen  at  the  Cape  forbade  the  one  using 
a  machine  he  had  invented  for  saving  labor,  lest  it 
might  lower  the  price  of  their  negroes  ;  and  the 
Portuguese  and  Chinese  refused  to  eat  the  fish  of 
the  other,  because  he  neither  crossed  himself  before 
the  picture  of  the  virgin,  nor  burnt  gilt  paper  to  the 
image  of  Neang-ma-ko. 

A  prosperous  voyage  ended  in  Jonathan's  happy 
return  to  Salem,  where  he  became  a  great  man, 
even  to  the  extent  of  being  yclept  honorable.  He 
lived  long  and  happily,  and  his  chief  boast  to  the 
end  of  his  hfe  was,  that  he  had  been  the  first  of 
his  countrymen  to  visit  the  celestial  empire,  and  the 
only  man  that  navigated  \yith  a  Newfoundland  dog 
for  an  officer. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 


BY  FITZ-GREEXE  HALLECK. 

Wriiten  while  sailiug  in  an  open  boat  on  the  Hudson  river,  between  Sioney  Point  nnd  the 
Highlands,  on  seeing  Uie  wreck  of  an  old  sloop- 


"And  tliis  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  th'mg."—S/takspeare. 


Her  side  is  in  the  water, 

Her  keel  is  on  the  sand, 
And  her  bowsprit  rests  on  the  low  gray  rock, 

That  bounds  the  sea  and  land. 

Her  deck  is  without  a  mast, 

And  sand  and  shells  are  there, 
And  the  teeth  of  decay  are  gnawing  her  planks, 

In  the  sun  and  the  sultry  air. 

No  more  on  the  river's  bosom, 

When  sky  and  wave  are  calm, 
And  the  clouds  are  in  summer  quietness, 

And  the  cool  night-breath  is  balm. 

Will  she  glide  in  the  swan-like  stillness 

Of  the  moon  in  the  blue  above, 
A  messenger  from  other  lands, 

A  beacon  to  hope  and  love. 

No  more,  in  the  midnight  tempest, 

Will  she  mock  the  mounting  sea, 
Strong  in  her  oaken  timbers, 

And  her  white  sail's  bravery. 


THE  RIME,  ETC.  35 

She  hath  borne,  in  days  departed, 

Warm  hearts  upon  her  deck ; 
Those  hearts,  like  her  are  mouldering  now, 

The  victims,  and  the  wreck. 

Of  time,  whose  touch  erases 

Each  vestige  of  all  we  love  ; 
The  wand'rers,  home  returning, 

Who  gazed  that  deck  above, 

And  they  who  stood  to  welcome 

Their  lov'd  ones  on  that  shore, 
Are  gone  and  the  place  that  knew  them 

Shall  know  them  never  more. 


It  was  a  night  of  terror. 

In  the  autumn  equinox. 
When  that  gallant  vessel  found  a  grave 

Upon  the  Peekskill  rocks. 

Captain,  mate,  cook,  and  seamen, 
(They  were  in  all  but  three,) 

Were  sav'd  by  swimming  fast  and  well, 
And  their  gallows  destiny. 

But  two,  a  youth  and  maiden. 
Were  left  to  brave  the  .storm, 

With  unpronouncable  Dutch  names, 
And  hearts  with  true  love  warm. 

And  they,  for  love  has  watchers 

In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea, 
Were  sav'd  by  cUnging  to  the  wreck 

And  their  marriage-destiny. 


36 


THE  RIME  OF  THE 

From  sunset  to  night's  noon 

She  had  lean'd  upon  his  arm, 
Nor  heard  the  far-off  thunder  toll 

The  tocsin  of  alarm. 

Not  so  the  youth — he  listened 

To  the  cloud-wing  flapping  by ; 
And  low  he  whispered,  in  Low  Dutch, 

"  It  tells  our  doom  is  nigh. 

"  Death  is  the  lot  of  mortals, 

"But  we  are  young  and  strong, 
"  And  hoped,  not  boldly,  for  a  life 

"  Of  happy  years  and  long. 

"  Yet,  'tis  a  thought  consoling, 

"That,  till  our  latest  breath, 
"  We  loved  in  life,  and  shall  not  be 

"  Divided  in  our  death. 

"  Alas,  for  those  that  wait  us 

"  On  their  couch  of  dreams  at  home, 

"  The  morn  will  hear  the  funeral  cry 
"  Around  their  daughter's  tomb. 

"  They  hoped,"  ('twas  a  strange  moment 

In  Dutch  to  quote  Shakspeare,) 
"  '  Thy  bride-bed  to  have  decked,  sweet  maid, 

"  'And  not  have  strewed  thy  bier.'  " 

But,  sweetly-voiced  and  smiling, 

The  trusting  maiden  said, 
"Breathed  not  our  lips  the  vow  to-day 

"To-morrow  we  will  wed? 

"And  I,  who  have  known  thy  truth 
"  Through  years  of  joy  and  sorrow, 

"  Can  I  believe  the  fickle  winds? 
"No!  we  shall  wed  to-morrow!'' 


ANCIENT  COASTER.  37 

The  tempest  heard  and  paused, 

The  wild  sea  gentler  moved, 
They  felt  the  power  of  woman's  faith, 

In  the  word  of  him  she  loved. 

All  night  to  rope  and  spar 

They  clung  with  strength  untired, 
Till  the  dark  clouds  fled  before  the  sun. 

And  the  fierce  storm  expired. 

At  noon  the  song  of  bridal  bells 

O'er  hill  and  valley  ran, 
At  eve  he  called  the  maiden  his 

"Before  the  holy  man.*' 

They  dwelt  beside  the  waters 

That  bathe  yon  fallen  pine, 
And  round  them  grew  their  sons  and  daughters. 

Like  wild  grapes  on  the  vine. 

And  years  and  years  flew  o'er  them, 

Like  birds  with  beauty  on  their  wings, 
And  theirs  were  happy  sleigh-ride  winters, 

And  long  and  lovely  springs. 

Such  joys  as  thrilled  the  lips  that  kist 

The  wave,  rock-cooled,  from  Horeb's  fountains, 

And  sorrows,  fleeting  as  the  mist 

Of  morning,  spread  upon  the  mountains. 

Till,  in  a  good  old  age, 

Their  life-breath  passed  away, 
Their  name  is  on  the  church-yard  page, 

Their  story  in  my  lay. 


VOL.  I. 


38         THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER, 

And  let  them  sleep  together, 

The  maid,  the  boat,  the  boy, 
AMiy  sing  of  matrimony  now, 

In  this  brief  hour  of  joy  1 

Our  time  may  come,  and  let  it — 

'Tis  enough  for  us  now  to  know 
That  our  bark  will  reach  West  Point  ere  long^ 

If  the  breeze  keep  on  to  blow. 

We  have  Hudibras  and  Milton, 

Wine,  flutes,  and  a  bugle-horn, 
And  a  dozen  segars  are  lingering  yet 

Of  the  thousand  of  yestermom. 

They  have  gone,  like  life's  first  pleasures, 

And  faded  in  smoke  away, 
And  the  few  that  are  left  are  like  bosom  friends? 

In  the  evening  of  our  day — 

We  are  far  from  the  mount  of  battle,* 
Where  the  wreck  first  met  mine  eye. 
And  now  where  twin-fortsf  in  the  olden  time  rose, 
Through  the  Race,  like  a  swift  steed,  our  little  bark  goes, 
And  our  bugle's  notes  echo  through  Anthony's  nose,t 
So  wrecks  and  rhymes — good  by. 


*  Stoney  Point. 

t  Forts  Clinton  and  Montgomery. 


t  Not  the  saint  of  that  name,  nor  Cleopatra's  lover,  but  a  mountain  in  the 
Hudson  Highlands,  remarkable  in  its  neighborhood  for  the  beauty  of  its 
scenery  and  its  rattlesnakes. 


STEAM. 


I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream."— 5yron. 

"Modern  philosophy,  anon, 
Will,  at  the  rate  she's  rushing  on, 
Yoke  lightning  to  her  railroad  car, 
And,  posting  like  a  shooting  star, 
i^wift  as  a  solar  radiation 
Ride  the  grand  circuit  of  creation." — Ano7u 


I  HAVE  a  bilious  friend,  who  is  a  great  admirer 
and  imitator  of  Lord  Byron  ;  that  is,  he  aflects  mis- 
anthropy, masticates  tobacco,  has  his  shirts  made 
without  collars,  calls  himself  a  miserable  man,  and 
writes  poetry  with  a  glass  of  gin-and-water  before 
him.  His  gin,  though  far  from  first-rate,  is  better 
than  his  poetiy ;  the  latter,  indeed,  being  worse 
than  that  of  many  authors  of  the  present  day,  and 
scarcely  fit  for  an  album  ;  however,  he  does  not  think 
so,  and  makes  a  great  quantity.  At  his  lodgings, 
a  few  evenings  ago,  among  other  morbid  produc- 
tions, he  read  me  one  entitled  "  Steam,"  written  in 
very  blank  verse,  and  evidently  modelled  after  the 
noble  poet's  "  Darkness,"  in  which  he  takes  a  bird's 
eye  view  of  the  world  two  or  three  centuries  hence, 
describes  things  in  general,  and  comes  to  a  conclu- 
sion with,  "  Steam  was  the  universe  !"  Whether 
it  was  the  fumes  arising  from  this  piece  of  solemn 


40  STEAM. 

bombast,  or  whether  I  had  unconsciously  imbibed 
more  hoUands  tlian  my  temperate  habits  allow  of, 
I  cannot  say,  but  I  certainly  retired  to  bed  like 
Othello,  '•  perplexed  in  the  extreme."  There  wa? 
no  '•  dreamless  sleep"  for  me  that  niglit,  and  dueen 
Mab  drove  full  gallop  through  every  nook  and  cran- 
ny of  my  brain.  Strange  and  fantastical  visions 
floated  before  me,  till  at  length  came  one  with  all 
the  force  and  clearness  of  reality. 

I  thought  I  stood  upon  a  gentle  sw-ell  of  ground, 
and  looked  down  upon  the  scene  beneath  me.  It 
was  a  pleasant  sight,  and  yet  a  stranger  might  have 
passed  it  by  unheeded  ;  but  to  me  it  Avas  as  the 
green  spot  in  the  desert,  for  there  I  recognised  the 
liaunt  of  my  boyhood.  There  was  the  w'ild  common 
on  which  I  had  so  often  scampered  '•  frae  mornin' 
sun  till  dine/'  skirted  by  tlie  old  Avood,  through 
which  the  burn  stole  tinkhng  to  the  neighboring 
river.  There  was  the  little  ivy-covered  church  with 
its  modest  spire  and  immovable  weathercock,  and 
clustering  around  lay  the  village  that  I  knew  con- 
tained so  many  kind  and  loving  hearts.  All  looked 
just  as  it  did  on  the  summer  morning  when  I  left 
it,  and  went  a  wandering  over  this  weary  w^orld. 
To  me  the  very  trees  possessed  an  individuality ; 
the  branches  of  the  old  oak  (there  w^as  but  one) 
seemed  to  nod  familiarly  towards  me,  the  music  of 
the  rippling  water  fell  pleasantly  on  my  ear,  and 
tlie  passing  breeze  murmured  of  '-home,  sweet 
home."  The  balmy  air  w^as  laden  w^ith  the  hum 
of  unseen  insects,  and  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  a 


STEAM.  ^2 

thoLip^'iCl  common  herbs  and  flowers ;  and  to  my 
eyes  the  place  looked  prettier  and  pleasanter  than 
any  they  have  since  rested  on.     As  I  gazed,  the 
"womanish  moisture"  made  dim  my  sight,  and  I 
felt  that  yearning  of  the  heart  which  every  man 
who  has  a  soul  feels — let  him  go  where  he  wdll,  or 
reason  how  he  will — on  once  more  beholding  the 
spot  where  the  only  pure,  unsullied  part  of  his  ex- 
istence passed  away. — Suddenly  the  scene  changed. 
The  quiet,  smiling  village  vanished,  and  a  busy, 
crowded  city  occupied  its  place.     The  wood  was 
gone,  the  brook  dried  up,  and  the  common  cut  to 
pieces  and  covered  with  a  kind  of  iron  gangways. 
I  looked  upon  the  surrounding  country,  if  country 
it  could  be  called,  where  vegeta.ble  nature  had  ceased 
to  exist.    The  neat,  trim  gardens,  the  verdant  lawns 
and  swelling  uplands,  the  sweet-scented  meadows 
and  waving  corn-fields,  were  all  swept  away,  and 
fruit,  and  flowers,  and  herbage,  appeared  to  be  things 
uncared  for  and  unknown.     Houses  and  factories, 
and   turnpikes   and   railroads,   were   scattered   all 
around  ;   and  along  the  latter,  as  if  propelled   by 
some  unseen  infernal  power,  monstrous  machines 
flew  with  inconceivable   swiftness.      People  were 
crowding  and  jostling  each  other  on  all  sides.     I 
mingled  with  them,  but  they  were  not  like  those  I 
had   formerly  known — they  walked,   talked,   and 
transacted  business  of  all  kinds  w^ith  astonishing 
celerity.     Every  thing  was  done  in  a  hurry:  they 
ate,  drank,  and  slept  in  a  hurry;  they  danced,  sung, 
and  made  love  in  a  hurry ;  they  married,  died,  and 
4* 


42  STEAM. 

w  ere  buried  in  a  hurry,  and  resurrection-mer^  had 
them  out  of  their  graves  before  they  well  knew 
they  were  in  them.  "Whatever  was  done,  was 
done  upon  the  high-pressure  principle.  No  person 
stopped  to  speak  to  anotlier  in  the  street;  but  as 
they  moved  rapidly  on  their  way,  the  men  talked 
faster  than  women  do  now,  and  the  women  talked 
twice  as  fast  as  ever.  ]\Iany  were  bald :  and  on  ask- 
ing the  reason,  T  was  given  to  understand  that  they 
liad  been  great  travellers,  and  that  the  rapidity  of 
modern  conveyances  literally  scalped  those  who 
journeyed  much  in  them,  sweeping  whiskers,  eye- 
brows, eye-lashes,  in  fact,  eveiy  thing  in  any  way 
movable,  from  their  faces.  Animal  life  appeared 
to  be  extinct ;  carts  and  carriages  came  ratthng 
down  the  highways,  horseless  and  driverless,  and 
Asheelbarrows  trundled  along  without  any  visible 
agency.  Nature  was  out  of  fashion,  and  the  world 
seemed  to  get  along  tolerabl}^  well  without  her. 

At  the  foot  of  the  street  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  house  which  they  were  building,  of  prodigious 
dimensions,  being  not  less  than  seventeen  stories 
high.  On  the  top  of  it  several  men  were  at  work, 
when,  dreadful  to  relate,  the  foot  of  one  of  them 
slipped,  and  he  was  precipitated  to  the  earth  with 
a  fearful  crash.  Judge  of  my  horror  and  indigna_ 
tion  on  observing  the  crowd  pass  unheeding  by, 
scarcely  deigning  to  cast  a  look  on  their  fellow- 
creature,  who  doubtless  lay  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
and  the  rest  of  the  workmen  went  on  with  their 
several  avocations  without  a  moment's  pause  in 


STEAM. 


43 


conp^iuence  of  the  accident.  On  approaching  the 
spotj  I  heard  several  in  passing  murmur  the  most 
incomprehensible  observations.  "  Only  a  steam- 
man,"  said  one.  "  Won't  cost  much,"  said  another. 
"  His  boiler  overcharged,  I  suppose,"'  cried  a  third  ; 
"  the  way  in  which  all  these  accidents  happen !" 
And  true  enough,  there  lay  a  man  of  tin  and  sheet- 
iron,  weltering  in  hot  water.  The  superintendent 
of  the  concern,  who  was  not  a  steam-man,  but 
made  of  the  present  materials,  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  the  springs  were  damaged,  and  the 
steam-vessels  a  little  ruj)tured,  but  not  much  harm 
done;  and  straightway  sent  the  corpse  to  the  black- 
smith's (who  was  a  flesh-and-blood  man)  to  be  re- 
paired. Here  was  then  at  once  a  new  version  of 
the  old  Greek  fable,  and  modern  Prometheuses  were 
actually  as  "  plentiful  as  blackberries."  In  fact,  I 
found  upon  inquiry,  that  society  was  now  divided 
into  two  great  classes,  living  and  "  locomotive"  men, 
the  latter  being  much  the  better  and  honestcr  people 
of  the  two  :  and  a  fashionable  political  econon^iist  of 
the  name  of  Malthus,  a  lineal  descendant  of  an  an- 
cient, and  it  appears,  rather  inconsistent  system- 
monger,  liad  just  pubhshed  an  elaborate  pamphlet, 
showing  the  manifold  advantages  of  propagating 
those  no-provender-consuming  individuals  in  pre- 
ference to  any  other.  So  that  it  appeared,  that  any 
industrious  mechanic  might  in  three  months  have  a 
full-grown  family  about  him,  with  the  full  and  com- 
fortable assurance  that,  as  the  man  says  in  Chro- 
nonhotonthologos,  "  they  were  all  his  own  and  none 
of  his  neighbors." 


44  STEAM. 

These  things  astonished,  but  they  also  perplcved 
and  wearied  me.  My  spirit  grew  sick,  and  I  longed 
for  the  old  world  again,  and  its  quiet  and  peaceable 
modes  of  enjoyment.  I  had  no  fellowship  with  the 
two  new  races  of  beings  around  me,  and  nature  and 
her  charms  were  no  more.  All  things  seemed  forced, 
unnatural,  unreal — indeed,  little  better  than  bare- 
faced impositions.  I  sought  the  banks  of  my  naiive 
river;  it  alone  remained  unchanged.  The  noble 
stream  flowed  gently  and  tranquilly  as  of  yore,  but 
even  here  impertinent  man  had  been  at  work,  and 
pernicious  railroads  were  formed  to  its  very  verge. 
I  incautiously  crossed  one  of  them,  trusting  to  my 
preconceived  notions  of  time  and  space,  the  abhor- 
red engine  being  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from 
me ;  but  scarcely  had  I  stepped  over,  when  it  flew 
whizzing  past  the  spot  I  had  just  quitted,  and  catch- 
ing me  in  its  eddy,  spun  me  around  like  a  top  un- 
der the  lash.  It  was  laden  with  passengers,  and 
went  with  headlong  fury  straight  toward  the  river. 
Its  fate  seemed  inevitable — another  instant  and  it 
would  be  immersed  in  the  waves  ;  w^hen  lo  !  it  sud- 
denly sunk  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  and  in  three 
seconds  was  ascending  a  perpendicular  hill  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river.  I  was  petrified,  and 
gazed  around  with  an  air  of  helpless  bewilderment, 
when  a  gentleman,  who  was  doubtless  astonished 
at  my  astonishment,  shouted  in  passing,  "  What's 
the  fellow  staring  at?"'  and  another  asked  "  if  I  had 
never  seen  a  tunnel  before?" 

Like  Lear,  "my  wits  began  to  turn."  I  wished 
for  some  place  where  I  might  hide  myself  from  all 


STEAM.  45 

around,  and  turned  instinctively  to  the  spot  where 
the  village  ale-house  used  to  stand.  But  where, 
ala^  !  was  the  neat  thatched  cottage  that  was  wont 
so  often  to 

"  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart  1" 

Gone !  and  in  its  place  stood  a  huge  fabric,  labelled 
'•  Grand  Union  Railroad  Hotel."  But  here  also  it 
was  steam,  steam,  nothing  but  steam  !  The  rooms 
were  heated  by  steam,  the  beds  were  made  and  air- 
ed by  steam,  and  instead  of  a  pretty,  red-lipped,  rosy- 
cheeked  chambermaid,  there  was  an  accursed  ma- 
chine-man smoothing  down  the  pillows  and  bolstei's 
with  mathematical  precision ;  the  victuals  were  cook- 
ed by  steam,  yea,  even  the  meat  roasted  by  steam. 
Instead  of  the  clean-swept  hearth 

*'  With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  sweet," 

there  was  a  patent  steam-stove,  and  the  place  way 
altogether  hotter  than  any  decent  man  would  ever 
expect  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with.  Books  and 
papers  lay  scattered  on  a  table.  I  took  up  one  of 
the  former ;  it  was  filled  with  strange  new  phrases, 
all  more  or  less  relating  to  steam,  of  which  I  knew 
nothing,  but  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  the  English 
of  the  several  items,  they  ran  somewhat  thus: 

"  Another  shocking  catastrophe. — As  the  war- 
ranted-safe  locomotive  smoke-consuming,  fuel-pro- 
viding steam-carriage  Lightning,  was  this  morning 
proceeding  at  its  usual  three-quarter  speed  of  one 


46  STEAM. 

hundred  and  twenty-seven  miles  an  hour,  at  the 
junction  of  the  Hannington  and  Slipsby  raihoads, 
it  unfortunately  came  in  contact  with  the  steam- 
carriage  Snail,  going  about  one  hundred  and  five 
miles  per  hour.  Of  course,  both  vehicles  with  their 
passengers  w^ere  instantaneously  reduced  to  an  im- 
palpable pow^der.  The  friends  of  the  deceased  have 
the  consolation  of  knowing  that  no  blame  can  pos- 
sibly attach  to  the  intelligent  proprietors  of  the 
Lightning,  it  having  been  clearly  ascertained  that 
those  of  the  Snail  started  their  carriage  full  two 
seconds  before  the  time  agreed  on,  in  order  to  ob- 
viate in  some  degree,  the  delay  to  which  passengers 
wei'e  unavoidably  subjected  by  the  clumsy  construc- 
tion and  tedious  pace  of  their  vehicle." 

^-  Melancholy  accident. — As  a  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished young  lady  of  the  name  of  Jimps,  a  pas- 
senger in  the  Swift-as-thought-locomotive,  was  en- 
deavoring to  catch  a  flying  ghmpse  of  the  new  Steam 
University,  her  breathing  apparatus  unfortunately 
slipped  from  her  mouth,  and  she  was  a  corpse  in 
three-quarters  of  a  second.  A  young  gentleman 
w^ho  had  been  tenderly  attached  to  her  for  several 
days,  in  the  agony  of  his  feelings  withdrew  his  air- 
tube  and  called  for  help ;  he  of  course  shared  a  simi- 
lar fate.  Too  much  praise  cannot  be  given  to  the 
rest  of  the  passengers,  who,  w^ith  inimitable  presence 
of  mind,  prudently  held  their  breathing-bladders,  to 
their  mouths  during  the  w^hole  of  this  trying  scene," 
(fee.  &c. 


STEAM.  47 

A  Liverpool  paper  stated  that "  The  stock  for  the 
grand  Liverpool  and  Dublin  tunnel  under  the  Irish 
channel,  is  nearly  filled  up."  And  a  Glasgow  one 
advocated  the  necessity  of  a  floating  wooden  railroad 
between  Scotland  and  the  Isle  of  Man,  in  order  to 
do  away  with  the  tiresome  steamboat  navigation.  I 
took  up  a  volume  of  poems,  but  the  similes  and 
metaphors  were  all  steam ;  all  their  ideas  of  strength, 
and  power,  and  swiftness,  referred  to  steam  only, 
and  a  sluggish  man  was  compared  to  a  greyhound. 
I  looked  into  a  modern  dictionary  for  some  light  on 
these  subjects,  but  got  none,  except  finding  hundreds 
of  curious  definitions,  such  as  these  : 

"  Horse,  s.  an  animal  of  which  but  little  is  now 
known.  Old  writers  affirm  that  there  were  at  one 
time  several  thousands  in  this  country." 

"  Tree,  s.  vegetable  production  ;  once  plentiful 
in  these  parts,  and  still  to  be  found  in  remote  dis- 
tricts." 

"  Tranquillity,  s.  obsolete ;  an  unnatural  state 
of  existence,  to  which  the  ancients  were  very  par- 
tial. The  word  is  to  be  met  with  in  several  old  au- 
thors," <fec.  &c. 

In  despair  I  threw  down  the  book,  and  rushed 
out  of  the  house.  It  was  mid-day,  but  a  large  the- 
atre was  open,  and  the  people  were  pouring  in.  I 
entered  with  the  rest,  and  found  that  whatever 
changes  had  taken  place,  money  was  still  money. 
They  were  playing  Hamlet  by  steam,  and  this  was 
better  than  any  other  purpose  to  which  I  had  seen 
it  applied.     The  automata  really  got  along  won- 


48  STEAM. 

derfully  well,  their  speaking  faculties  being  ar- 
ranged upon  the  barrel-organ  principle,  greatly  im- 
proved, and  ihey  roared,  and  bellowed,  and  strutted, 
and  swung  their  arms  to  and  fro  as  sensibly  as  many 
admired  actors.  Unfortunately  in  the  grave  scene, 
owing  to  some  mechanical  misconstruction,  Hamlet 
exploded,  and  in  doing  so,  entirely  demolished  one 
of  the  grave-diggers,  carried  away  a  great  part  of 
Laertes,  and  so  injured  the  rest  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sonae  that  they  went  off  one  after  the  other  like  so 
many  crackers,  filling  the  house  with  heated  vapor. 
I  made  my  escape  5  but  on  reaching  the  street  things 
were  ten  times  worse  than  ever.  It  was  the  hour 
for  stopping  and  starting  the  several  carriages,  and 
no  language  can  describe  the  state  of  the  atmosphere. 
Steam  was  generating  and  evaporating  on  all  sides 
— the  bright  sun  was  obscured — the  people  looked 
parboiled,  and  the  neighboring  fisherman's  lobsters 
changed  color  on  the  instant ;  even  the  steam  in- 
habitants appeared  uncomfortably  hot.  I  could 
scarcely  breathe — there  was  a  blowing,  a  roaring,  a 
hissing,  a  fizzing,  a  whizzing  going  on  all  around 
— fires  were  blazing,  water  was  bubbling,  boilers 
were  bursting — when  lo !  I  suddenly  awoke  and 
found  myself  in  a  state  of  profuse  perspiration.  I 
started  up,  ran  to  the  window,  and  saw  several  milk- 
men and  bakers'  carts,  with  horses  in  them,  trotting 
merrily  along.  I  was  a  thankful  man.  I  put  on 
my  clothes,  and  while  doing  so,  made  up  my  mind 
to  read  no  more  manuscript  poems,  and  eschew  gin 
and  water  for  the  time  to  come. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

BY  WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT. 


The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  faniovis  partis^an  warrior  of 
Houth  Carolina,  form  an  interesting  portion  of  tlie  annals  of  the  American 
revolution.  The  British  troops  were  so  harassed  by  the  irregular  warlare 
which  he  kept  up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  follower.s,  that  they  sent  an 
officer  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  notcoming  into  the  open  field  and  fight- 
Hiif,  to  use  thoir  expression,  "  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian." 


Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green-wood. 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us. 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery, 

That  little  dread  us  near  I 
On  them  shall  light,  at  midnight, 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  : 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror,  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 


50  SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

Tlien  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber,  long  and  sweetly, 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles. 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
"Tis  life  our  fiery  barbs  to  guide 

Across  the  moonlit  plains  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night  wind 

That  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer. 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

For  ever  from  our  shore. 


THE  MAIN  TRUCK,  OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE. 


BY  WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 


'*  Stand  still !    How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low!" 

"The  murmiirin;  snrpe, 
That  on  th'  unnumboied  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  licard  so  high  :— I'll  look  no  more, 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. — Shakspeare. 


AxMOXG  the  many  agreeable  associates  whom  my 
diirereiit  cruisings  and  wanderings  have  brought 
me  acquainted  with,  I  can  scarcely  call  to  mind  a 
more  pleasant  and  companionable  one  than  Tom 
Scupper.  Poor  fellow !  he  is  dead  and  gone  now — 
a  victim  to  that  code  of  false  honor  which  has  rob- 
bed the  navy  of  too  many  of  its  choicest  officers. 
Tom  and  I  were  messmates  during  a  short  and  de- 
lightful cruise,  and,  for  a  good  part  of  the  time,  we 
belonged  to  the  same  watch.  He  was  a  great  hand 
to  spin  yarns,  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  sometimes 
told  tolerably  well;  and  many  a  long  mid-watch  has 
his  fund  of  anecdote  and  sea  stories  caused  to  slip 
pleasantly  away.  We  were  lying,  in  the  httle  schoo- 
ner to  which  we  were  attached,  in  the  open  road- 
stead of  Laguyra,  at  single  anchor,  when  Tom  told 


52  THE  MAIN  TRUCK, 

me  the  story  which  I  am  about  to  relate,  as  nearly 
as  I  can  remember,  in  his  own  words.  A  vessel 
from  Baltimore  had  come  into  Laguyra  that  day, 
and  by  her  I  had  received  letters  from  home,  in  one 
of  which  there  was  a  piece  of  intelligence  that 
w^eighed  very  heavily  on  my  spirits.  For  some 
minutes  after  our  watch  commenced,  Tom  and  I 
walked  the  deck  in  silence,  which  was  soon,  how- 
ever, interrupted  by  my  talkative  companion,  who, 
perceiving  my  depression,  and  wishing  to  divert  my 
thoughts,  began  as  follows  : 

The  last  cruise  I  made  in  the  Mediterranean  was 
in  Old  Ironsides,  as  we  used  to  call  our  gallant  fri- 
gate. We  had  been  backing  and  filhng  for  several 
months  on  the  western  coast  of  Africa,  from  the 
Canaries  down  to  Messurado,  in  search  of  slave 
traders  ;  and  during  that  time  we  had  some  pretty 
heavy  weather.  When  we  reached  the  Straits,  there 
was  a  spanking  wind  blowing  from  about  west- 
south-west  ;  so  we  squared  away,  and  without 
coming  to  at  the  Rock,  made  a  straight  wake  for 
old  Mahon,  the  general  rendezvous  and  place  of  re- 
fitting for  our  squadrons  in  the  Mediterranean.  Im- 
mediately on  arriving  there,  we  warped  in  along- 
side the  Arsenal  quay,  where  we  stripped  ship  to  a 
girtline,  broke  out  the  holds,  tiers,  and  store-rooms, 
and  gave  her  a  regular-built  overhauHng  from  stem 
to  stern.  For  a  while,  every  body  was  busy,  and 
all  seemed  bustle  and  confusion.  Orders  and  re- 
plies, in  loud  and  dissimilar  voices,  the  shrill  pipings 
of  the  different  boatswain's  mates,  each  attending 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  53 

to  separate  duties,  and  the  mingled  clatter  and  noise 
of  various  kinds  of  work,  all  going  on  at  the  same 
time,  gave  something  of  the  stir  and  animation  of 
a  dock-yard  to  the  usually  quiet  arsenal  of  Mahon. 
The  boatswain  and  his  crew  were  engaged  in  fitting 
a  new  gang  of  rigging ;  the  gunner  in  repairing  his 
breechings  and  gun-tackles;  the  fo'castle-men  in 
calking;  the  top-men  in  sending  down  the  yards 
and  upper  spars ;  the  holders  and  waisters  in  white- 
'  washing  and  holy-stoning  ;  and  even  the  poor  ma- 
rines were  kept  busy,  like  beasts  of  burden,  in  car- 
rying breakers  of  water  on  their  backs.  On  the 
quay,  near  the  ship,  the  smoke  of  the  armorer's 
forge,  which  had  been  hoisted  out  and  sent  ashore, 
ascended  in  a  thick  black  column  through  the  clear 
blue  sky;  from  one  of  the  neighboring  white  stone 
warehouses  the  sound  of  saw  and  hammer  told  that 
the  carpenters  were  at  work ;  near  by,  a  livelier  rat- 
thng  drew  attention  to  the  cooper,  who  in  the  open 
air  was  tightening  the  water-casks ;  and  not  far  re- 
moved, under  a  temporary  shed,  formed  of  spare 
studding-sails  and  tarpaulins,  sat  the  sailmaker  and 
his  assistants,  repairing  the  sails,  which  had  been 
rent  by  the  many  storms  we  had  encountered. 

Many  hands,  however,  make  light  work,  and  in 
a  very  few  days  all  was  accomplished  ;  the  stays 
and  shrouds  were  set  up  and  new  rattled  down;  the 
yards  crossed,  the  running-rigging  rove,  and  sails 
bent ;  and  the  old  craft,  fresh  painted  and  all 
a-taunt-o,  looked  as  fine  as  a  midshipman  on  li- 
berty.    In  place  of  the  storm-stumps,  which  had 


54  THE  MAIN  TRUCK, 

been  stowed  away  among  the  booms  and  other 
spare  spars,  amidships,  we  had  sent  up  cap  to'gal- 
lant-masts  and  royal-poles,  with  a  sheave  for  sky- 
sails,  and  hoist  enough  for  sky-scrapers  above  them : 
so  you  may  judge  the  old  frigate  looked  pretty  taunt. 
There  was  a  Dutch  hne  ship  in  the  harbor ;  but 
though  we  only  carried  forty-four  to  her  eighty,  her 
main-truck  would  hardly  have  reached  to  our  royal- 
mast  head.  The  side-boys,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
lay  aloft  and  furl  the  skysails,  looked  no  bigger  on 
the  yard  than  a  good  sized  duff  for  a  midshipman's 
mess,  and  the  main-truck  seemed  not  half  as  large 
as  the  Turk's-head  knot  on  the  manropes  of  the 
accommodation  ladder. 

When  we  had  got  every  thing  ship-shape  and 
man-of-war  fashion,  we  hauled  out  again,  and  took 
our  berth  about  half  way  between  the  Arsenal  and 
Hospital  island  ;  and  a  pleasant  view  it  gave  us  of 
the  town  and  harbor  of  old  Mahon,  one  of  the  safest 
and  most  tranquil  places  of  anchorage  in  the  world. 
The  water  of  this  beautiful  inlet — which,  though  it 
makes  about  four  miles  into  the  land,  is  not  much 
over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  width — is  scarcely  ever 
ruffled  by  a  storm ;  and  on  the  delightful  afternoon 
to  which  I  now  refer,  it  lay  as  still  and  motionless 
as  a  polished  mirror,  except  when  broken  into  mo- 
mentary ripples  by  the  paddles  of  some  passing  wa- 
terman. AVhat  little  wind  we  had  in  the  fore  part 
of  the  day,  died  away  at  noon  ;  and,  though  the  first 
dog-watch  was  almost  out,  and  the  sun  was  near 
the  horizon,  not  a  breath  of  air  had  risen  to  disturb 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  55 

the  deep  serenity  of  the  scene.  The  Dutch  Hner, 
which  lay  not  far  from  us,  was  so  clearly  reflected 
in  the  glassy  surface  of  the  water,  that  there  was 
not  a  rope  about  her,  from  her  main-stay  to  her  sig- 
nal halliards,  which  the  eye  could  not  distinctly 
trace  in  her  shadowy  and  inverted  image.  The 
buoy  of  our  best  bower  floated  abreast  our  larboard 
bow ;  and  that,  too,  was  so  strongly  imaged,  that 
its  entire  bulk  seemed  to  lie  above  the  water,  just 
resting  on  it,  as  if  upborne  on  a  sea  of  molten  lead  ; 
except  when  now  and  then,  the  wringing  of  a  swab 
or  the  dashing  of  a  bucket  overboard  from  the  head, 
broke  up  the  shadow  for  a  moment,  and  showed 
the  substance  but  half  its  former  apparent  size.  A 
small  polacca  craft  had  got  underway  from  Mahon 
in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  intending  to  stand 
over  to  Barcelona  ;  but  it  fell  dead  calm  just  before 
she  reached  the  chops  of  the  harbor;  and  there  she 
lay  as  motionless  upon  the  blue  surface,  as  if  she 
were  only  part  of  a  mimic  scene,  from  the  pencil  of 
some  accomplished  painter.  Her  broad  cotton  lateen 
sails,  as  they  hung  drooping  from  the  slanting  and 
taper  yards,  shone  with  a  glistening  whiteness  that 
contrasted  beautifully  with  the  dark  flood  in  which 
they  were  reflected ;  and  the  distant  sound  of  the 
guitar,  which  one  of  the  sailors  was  listlessly  play- 
ing on  her  deck,  came  sweetly  over  the  water,  and 
harmonized  well  with  the  quiet  appearance  of  every 
thing  around.  The  whitewashed  walls  of  the  la- 
zaretto, on  a  verdant  headland  at  the  mouth  of  the 
bay,  ghttered  like  silver  in  the  slant  rays  of  the  sun ; 


55  THE  MAIN  TRUCK, 

and  some  of  its  windows  were  burnished  so  brightly 
by  the  level  beams,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
interior  of  the  edifice  were  in  flames.  On  the  op- 
posite side,  the  romantic  and  picturesque  ruins  of 
fort  St.  Philip,  faintly  seen,  acquired  double  beauty 
from  being  tipped  with  the  declining  light;  and  the 
clusters  of  ancient  looking  windmills,  which  dot  the 
green  eminences  along  the  bank,  added,  by  the  mo- 
tionless state  of  their  wings,  to  the  effect  of  the  un- 
broken tranquillity  of  the  scene. 

Even  on  board  our  vessel,  a  degree  of  stillness 
unusual  for  a  man-uf-war  prevailed  among  the  crew. 
It  was  the  hour  of  their  evening  meal ;  and  the  low 
hum  that  came  from  the  gun-deck  had  an  indistinct 
and  buzzing  sound,  whicli,  like  the  tiny  song  of 
bees  of  a  warm  summer  noon,  rather  heightened 
than  diminished  the  charm  of  the  surrounding  quiet. 
The  spar-deck  \vas  almost  deserted.  The  quarter- 
master of  the  watch,  with  his  spy-glass  in  his  hand, 
and  dressed  in  a  frock  and  trowsers  of  snowy  white- 
ness, stood  aft  upon  the  tafferel,  erect  and  motionless 
as  a  statue,  keeping  the  usual  lookout.  A  group  of 
some  half  a  dozen  sailors  had  gathered  together  on 
the  forecastle,  where  they  were  supinely  lying  under 
the  shade  of  the  bulwarks;  and  here  and  there, 
upon  the  gun-slides  along  the  gangway,  sat  three 
or  four  others — one,  with  his  clothes-bag  beside  him, 
overhauling  his  simple  wardrobe ;  another  working 
a  set  of  clues  for  some  favorite  officer's  hammock  ; 
and  a  third  engaged,  perhaps,  in  carving  his  name 
in  rude  letters  upon  the  handle  of  a  jack-knife,  or 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  57 

in  knotting  a  laniard  by  which  to  suspend  it  round 
his  neck. 

On  the  top  of  the  boom-cover,  and  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  level  sun,  lay  black  Jake,  the  jig-maker 
of  the  ship,  and  a  striking  specimen  of  African  pe- 
cuharities,  in  whose  single  person  they  were  all 
strongly  developed.     His  flat  nose  was  dilated  to 
unusual  width,  and  his  ebony  cheeks  fairly  ghsten- 
ed  with  delight,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  gambols  of 
a  large  monkey,  which;  clinging  to  the  main-stay, 
just  above  Jake's  woolly  lipnd,  was  chattering  and 
grinning  back  at  the  negro,  as  if  there  existed  some 
means  of  mutual  intelligence  between  them.  It  was 
my  watch  on  deck,  and  I  had  been  standing  several 
minutes  leaning  on  the  main  fiferail,  amusing  my- 
self by  observing  the  antics  of  the  black  and  his 
congenial  playmate ;  but  at  length,  tiring  of  the 
rude  mirth,  had  turned  towards  the  taffercl,  to  gaze 
on  the  more  agreeable  features  of  that  scene  which 
I  have  feebly  attempted  to  describe.     Just  at  that 
moment  a  shout  and  a  merry  laugh  burst  upon  my 
ear,  and  looking  quickly  round,  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  the  unusual  sound  on  a  frigate's  deck,  I  saw 
httle  Bob  Stay  (as  we  called  our  commodore's  son) 
standing  half  way  up  the  main-hatch  ladder,  clap- 
ping his  hands,  and  looking  aloft  at  some  object 
that  seemed  to  inspire  him  with  a  deal  of  glee.     A 
single  glance  to  the  main-yard  explained  the  occa- 
sion of  his  merriment.     He  had  been  coming  up 
from  the  gun-deck,  when  Jacko,  perceiving  him  on 
the  ladder,  dropped  suddenly  down  from  the  main- 


58  THE  MAIN  TRUCK, 

Stay,  and  running  along  the  boom  cover,  leaped 
upon  Bob's  shoulder,  seized  his  cap  from  his  head, 
and  immediately  darted  up  the  main-topsail  sheet, 
and  thence  to  the  bunt  of  the  main-yard,  where 
he  now  sat,  picking  threads  from  the  tassel  of  his 
prize,  and  occasionally  scratching  his  side  and  chat- 
tering, as  if  with  exultation  for  the  success  of  his 
mischief.  But  Bob  was  a  sprightly,  active  little 
fellow ;  and  though  he  could  not  climb  quite  as 
nimbly  as  a  monke}^,  yet  he  had  no  mind  to  lose 
his  cap  without  an  effort  to  regain  it.  Perhaps  he 
was  more  strongly  incited  to  make  chase  after  Jacko 
from  noticing  me  to  smile  at  his  plight,  or  by  the 
loud  laugh  of  Jake,  w^ho  seemed  inexpressibly  de- 
lighted at  the  occurrence,  and  endeavored  to  evince, 
by  tumbling  about  the  boom-cloth,  shaking  his  huge 
misshapen  head,  and  sundry  other  grotesque  actions, 
the  pleasure  for  which  he  had  no  words. 

"  Ha,  you  d — d  rascal,  Jacko,  hab  you  no  more 
respec'  for  de  young  officer,  den  to  steal  his  cab  ? 
We  bring  you  to  de  gangway,  you  black  nigger, 
and  gib  you  a  dozen  on  de  bare  back  for  a  tief " 

The  monkey  looked  down  from  his  perch  as  if 
he  understood  the  threat  of  the  negro,  and  chatter- 
ed a  sort  of  defiance  in  answer. 

"Ha,  ha!  Massa  Stay,  he  say  you  mus' ketch 
him  'fore  you  flog  him  ;  and  it's  no  so  easy  for  a 
midshipman  in  boots  to  ketch  a  monkey  barefoot." 

A  red  spot  mounted  to  the  cheek  of  little  Bob,  as 
he  cast  one  glance  of  offended  pride  at  Jake,  and 
then  sprang  across  the  deck  to  the  Jacob's  ladder. 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE,  59 

In  an  instant  he  was  half  way  up  the  rigging,  run- 
ning over  the  ratUnes  as  hghtly  as  if  they  were 
an  easy  flight  of  stairs,  whilst  the  shrouds  scarcely 
quivered  beneath  his  elastic  motion.  In  a  second 
more  his  hand  was  on  the  futtocks. 

"  Massa  Stay  !"  cried  Jake,  who  sometimes,  from 
being  a  favorite,  ventured  to  take  liberties  with  the 
younger  officers,  "  Massa  Stay,  you  best  crawl 
through  de  lubber's  hole — it  take  a  sailor  to  climb 
the  futtock  shroud." 

But  he  had  scarcely  time  to  utter  his  pretended 
caution,  before  Bob  was  in  the  top.  The  monkey, 
in  the  meanwhile,  had  awaited  his  approach,  until 
he  had  got  nearly  up  the  rigging,  when  it  suddenly 
put  the  cap  on  its  own  head,  and  running  along  the 
yard  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  top,  sprang  up  a  rope, 
and  thence  to  the  topmast  backstay,  up  which  it 
ran  to  the  topmast  cross-trees,  where  it  again  quietly 
seated  itself,  and  resumed  its  work  of  picking  the 
tassel  to  pieces.  For  several  minutes  I  stood  watch- 
-ing  my  little  messmate  follow  Jacko  from  one  piece 
of  rigging  to  another,  the  monkey,  all  the  while, 
seeming  to  exert  only  as  much  agihty  as  was  ne- 
cessary to  elude  the  pursuer,  and  pausing  whenever 
the  latter  appeared  to  be  growing  weary  of  the 
chase.  At  last,  by  this  kind  of  manoeuvring,  the 
mischievous  animal  succeeded  in  enticing  Bob  as 
high  as  the  royal-mast-head,  when  springing  sud- 
denly on  the  royal  stay,  it  ran  nimbly  down  to  the 
foretop-gallant-mast-head,  thence  down  the  rigging 
to  the  foretop,  when  leaping  on  the  foreyard,  it  ran 


60  THE  MAIN-TRUCK. 

out  to  the  yard-arm,  and  hung  the  cap  on  the  end 
of  the  studding-sail  boom,  where,  taking  its  seat,  it 
raised  a  loud  and  exulting  chattering.  Bob  by  this 
time,  was  completely  tired  out,  and,  perhaps,  un- 
willing to  return  to  the  deck  to  be  laughed  at  for 
his  fruitless  chase,  he  sat  down  in  the  royal  cross- 
trees  ;  while  those  who  had  been  attracted  by  the 
sport,  returned  to  their  usual  avocations  or  amuse- 
ments. The  monkey,  no  longer  the  object  of  pur- 
suit or  attention,  remained  but  a  little  while  on  the 
yard-arm  ;  but  soon  taking  up  the  cap,  returned  in 
towards  the  slings,  and  dropped  it  down  upon  deck. 

Some  little  piece  of  duty  occurred  at  this  moment 
to  engage  me,  as  soon  as  which  was  performed,  I 
walked  aft,  and  leaning  my  elbow  on  the  tafferel. 
was  quickly  lost  in  the  recollection  of  scenes  very 
different  from  the  small  pantomime  I  had  just  been 
witnessing.  Soothed  by  the  low  hum  of  the  crew, 
and  by  the  quiet  loveliness  of  every  thing  around, 
my  thoughts  had  travelled  far  away  from  the  re- 
alities of  my  situation,  when  I  was  suddenly  star- 
tled by  a  cry  from  black  Jake,  which  brought  me 
on  the  instant  back  to  consciousness.  "  My  God  ! 
Massa  Scupper,"  cried  he,  "  Massa  Stay  is  on  de 
main-truck !" 

A  coldi  shudder  ran  through  my  veins  as  the  w^ord 
reached  my  ear.  I  cast  my  eyes  up — it  was  too 
true !  The  adventurous  boy,  after  resting  on  the 
royal  cross-treee,  had  been  seized  with  a  wish  to  go 
still  higher,  and,  impelled  by  one  of  those  impulses 
by  which  men  are  sometimes  instigated  to  place 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  61 

themselves  in  situations  of  imminent  peril,  without 
a  possibility  of  good  resulting  from  the  exposure,  he 
had  climbed  the  sky-sail  pole,  and,  at  the  moment 
of  my  looking  up,  was  actually  standing  on  the 
main-truck  !  a  small  circular  piece  of  wood  on  the 
very  summit  of  the  loftiest  mast,  and  at  a  height  so 
great  from  the  deck  that  my  brain  turned  dizzy  as 
I  looked  up  at  him.     The  reverse  of  Virgil's  line 
was  true  in  this  instance.     It  was  comparatively 
easy  to  ascend — but  to  descend — my  head  swam 
round,  and  my  stomach  felt  sick  at  thought  of  the 
perils  comprised  in  that  one  word.     There  was  no- 
thing above  him  or  around  him  but  the  empty  air 
— and  beneath  him,  nothing  but  a  point,  a  mere 
point — a  small,  unstable  wheel,  that  ^feemed  no  big- 
ger from  the  deck  than  the  button  on  the  end  of  a 
foil,  and  the  taper  sky-sail  pole  itself  scarcely  larger 
than  the  blade.     Dreadful  temerity  !    If  he  should 
attempt  to  stoop,  what  could  he  take  hold  of  to 
steady  his  descent?    His  feet  quite  covered  up  the 
small  and  fearful  platform  that  he  stood  upon,  and 
beneath  that,  a  long,  smooth,  naked  spar,  which 
seemed  to  bend  with  his  w^eight,  was  all  that  up- 
held  him  from  destruction.     An  attempt   to  get 
dowai  from  "  that  bad  eminence,"  would  be  almost 
certain  death  ;  he  would  inevitably  lose  his  equili- 
brium, and  be  precipitated  to  the  deck,  a  crushed 
and  shapeless  mass.     Such  was  the  nature  of  the 
thoughts  that  crowded  through  my  mind  as  I  first 
raised  my  eye,  and  saw  the  terrible  truth  of  Jake's 
exclamation.    What  was  to  be  done  in  the  pressing 

VOL.  I.  6 


62  THE  MAIN-TRUCK, 

and  horrible  exigency  ?  To  hail  him,  and  inform 
him  of  his  danger,  would  be  but  to  ensure  his  ruin. 
Indeed,  I  fancied  that  the  rash  boy  already  perceiv- 
ed the  imminence  of  his  peril ;  and  I  half  thought 
that  I  could  see  his  limbs  begin  to  quiver,  and  his 
cheek  turn  deadly  pale.  Every  moment  I  expected 
to  see  the  dreadful  catastrophe.  I  could  not  bear  to 
look  at  him.  and  yet  could  not  withdraw  my  gaze. 
A  film  came  over  my  eyes,  and  a  faintness  over  my 
heart.  The  atmosphere  seemed  to  grow  thick,  and 
to  tremble  and  waver  like  the  heated  air  around  a 
furnace  ;  the  mast  appeared  to  totter,  and  the  ship 
to  pass  from  under  my  feet.  I  myself  had  the  sen- 
sations of  one  about  to  fall  from  a  great  height,  and 
making  a  strong  effort  to  recover  myself,  like  that  of 
a  dreamer  who  fancies  he  is  shoved  from  a  preci- 
pice, I  staggered  up  against  the  bulwarks. 

When  my  eyes  were  once  turned  from  the  dread- 
ful object  to  which  they  had  been  riveted,  my  sense 
and  consciousness  came  back.  I  looked  around 
me — the  deck  was  already  crowded  with  people. 
The  intelligence  of  poor  Bob's  temerity  had  spread 
through  the  ship  hke  wild-fire — as  such  news  al- 
ways will — and  the  oflicers  and  crew  were  all 
crowding  to  the  deck  to  behold  the  appalhng — the 
heart-rending  spectacle.  Every  one,  as  he  looked 
up,  turned  pale,  and  his  eye  became  fastened  in  si- 
lence on  the  truck — hke  that  of  a  spectator  of  an 
execution  on  the  gallows — with  a  steadfast,  unblink- 
ing and  intense,  yet  abhorrent  gaze,  as  if  momen- 
tarily expecting  a  fatal  termination  to  the  awful  sus- 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  63 

pense.  No  one  made  a  suggestion — no  one  spoke. 
Every  feeling,  every  faculty  seemed  to  be  absorbed 
and  swallowed  up  in  one  deep,  intense  emotion  of 
agony.  Once  the  first  lieutenant  seized  the  trum- 
pet, as  if  to  hail  poor  Bob.  but  he  had  scarce  raised 
it  to  his  lips,  when  his  arm  dropped  again,  and 
sunk  listlessly  down  beside  him.  as  if  from  a  sad 
consciousness  of  the  utter  inutility  of  what  he  had 
been  going  to  say.  Every  soul  in  the  ship  was 
now  on  the  spar-deck,  and  every  eye  was  turned  to 
the  main-truck. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  stir  among  the  crew 
about  the  gangway,  and  directly  after  another  face 
was  added  to  those  on  the  quarter-deck — it  was  that 
of  the  commodore,  Bob's  father.  He  had  come 
alongside  in  a  shore  boat,  without  having  been  no- 
ticed by  a  single  eye,  so  intense  and  universal  was 
the  interest  that  had  fastened  every  gaze  upon  the 
opot  where  poor  Bob  stood  trembling  on  the  awful 
verge  of  fate.  The  commodore  asked  not  a  ques- 
tion, uttered  not  a  syllable.  He  was  a  daik-faced, 
austere  man,  and  it  was  thought  b}"  some  of  the 
midshipmen  that  he  entertained  but  little  affection 
for  his  son.  However  that  might  have  been,  it  was 
certain  that  he  treated  him  with  precisely  the  same 
strict  discipline  that  he  did  the  other  3^oung  officers, 
or  if  there  was  any  difference  at  all.  it  was  not  in 
favor  of  Bob.  Some  who  pretended  to  have  studied 
his  character  closely,  affn-med  that  he  loved  his  boy 
too  well  to  spoil  liim,  and  that,  intending  him  for  the 
arduous  profession  in  which  he  had  himself  risen  to 


64  THE  MAIN-TRUCK, 

fame  and  eminence,  he  lliouglit  it  would  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him  to  experience  some  of  its  privations  and 
hardships  at  the  outset. 

The  arrival  of  the  commodore  changed  the  direc- 
tion of  several  eyes,  whicli  now  turned  on  him  to 
trace  what  emotions  the  danger  of  his  son  would 
occasion.  But  their  scrutiny  was  foiled.  By  no 
outward  sign  did  he  show  what  was  passing  within. 
His  eye  still  retained  its  severe  expression,  his  brow 
the  slight  frown  which  it  usually  wore,  and  his  hp 
its  haughty  curl.  Immediately  on  reaching  the 
deck,  he  had  ordered  a  marine  to  hand  him  a  mus- 
ket, and  with  this  stepping  aft,  and  getting  on  the 
lookout-block,  he  raised  it  to  his  shoulder,  and  took 
a  deliberate  aim  at  his  son,  at  the  same  time  hailing 
him,  without  a  trumpet,  in  his  voice  of  thunder. 

"  Robert !"  cried  he,  "  jump  !  jump  overboard  !  or 
ril  fire  at  you  !" 

The  boy  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  it  was  plain  that 
he  was  tottering,  for  his  arms  were  thrown  out  like 
those  of  one  scarcely  able  to  retain  his  balance.  The 
commodore  raised  his  voice  again,  and  in  a  quicker 
and  more  energetic  tone,  cried, 

"  Jump  !  'tis  your  only  chance  for  life.'' 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth,  be- 
fore the  body  was  seen  to  leave  the  truck  and  spring 
out  into  the  air.  A  sound,  between  a  shriek  and 
groan,  burst  from  many  lips.  The  father  spoke 
not — sighed  not — indeed  he  did  not  seem  to  breathe. 
For  a  moment  of  intense  agony  a  pin  might  have 
been  heard  to  drop  on  deck.     With  a  rush  like  that 


OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.  55 

of  a  cannon  ball,  the  body  descended  to  the  water, 
and  before  the  waves  closed  over  it,  twenty  stout 
fellows,  among  them  several  officers,  had  dived  from 
the  bulwarks.  Another  short  period  of  bitter  sus- 
pense ensued.  It  rose — he  was  alive !  his  arms 
were  seen  to  move !  he  struck  out  towards  the 
ship  ! — and  despite  the  discipline  of  a  man-of-war, 
three  loud  huzzas,  an  outburst  of  unfeigned  and 
unrestrainable  joy  from  the  hearts  of  our  crew  of 
five  hundred  men,  pealed  through  the  air,  and  made 
the  welkin  ring.  Till  this  moment  the  old  commo- 
dore had  stood  unmoved.  The  eyes,  that  glisten- 
ing with  pleasure,  now  sought  his  face,  saw  that  it 
was  ashy  pale.  He  attempted  to  descend  the  horse- 
block, but  his  knees  bent  under  him ;  he  seemed  to 
gasp  for  breath,  and  put  up  his  hand,  as  if  to  tear 
open  his  vest ;  but  before  he  accomplished  his  ob- 
ject, he  staggered  forward,  and  would  have  fallen 
on  the  deck,  had  he  not  been  caught  by  old  black 
Jake.  He  was  borne  into  his  cabin,  where  the  sur- 
geon attended  him,  whose  utmost  skill  was  required 
to  restore  his  mind  to  its  usual  equability  and  self- 
command,  in  which  he  at  last  happily  succeeded. 
As  soon  as  he  recovered  from  the  dreadful  shock,  he 
sent  for  Bob,  and  had  a  long  confidential  conference 
with  him  ;  and  it  was  noticed,  when  the  little  fellow 
left  the  cabin,  that  he  was  in  tears.  The  next  day 
we  sent  down  our  taunt  and  dashy  poles,  and  re- 
placed them  with  the  stump-to'gallant-masts ;  and 
on  the  third,  we  weighed  anchor,  and  made  sail  for 
Gibraltar. 

6* 


AUTUMN. 

Wi-iiten  after  a  ride  by  the  Schuylkill,  in  October- 
BY  MISS  FANNY  KEMBLE. 

Thou  comest  not  in  sober  guise, 

In  mellow  cloak  of  russet  clad — 
Thine  are  no  melancholy  skies, 

Nor  hueless  flowers,  pale  and  sad  ; 
But,  like  an  emperor,  triumphing, 

With  gorgeous  robes  of  Tyrian  dyes, 
Full  flush  of  fragrant  blossoming, 

And  glowing  purple  canopies. 
How  call  ye  this  the  season's  fall. 

That  seems  the  pageant  of  the  year  ^ 
Richer  and  brighter  far  than  all 

The  pomp  that  spring  and  summer  wear, 
Red  falls  the  western  light  of  day 

On  rock  and  stream  and  winding  shore  ; 
Soft  woody  banks  and  granite  gray 

With  amber  clouds  are  curtained  o'er  ; 
The  wide  clear  waters  sleeping  lie 

Beneath  the  evening's  wings  of  gold, 
And  on  their  glassy  breast  the  sky 

And  banks  their  mingled  hues  unfold. 
Far  in  the  tangled  woods,  the  ground 

Is  strewn  with  fallen  leaves,  that  he 
Like  crimson  carpets  all  around 

Beneath  a  crimson  canopy. 


AUTUMN.  57 

The  sloping  sun,  with  arrows  bright. 

Pierces  the  forest's  waving  maze  ; 
The  universe  seems  wrapt  in  light, 

A  floating  robe  of  rosy  haze. 
Oh  Autumn  !  thou  art  here  a  king — 

And  round  thy  throne  the  smiling  hours 
A  thousand  fragrant  tributes  bring, 

Of  golden  fruits  and  blushing  flowers, 

Oh  !  not  upon  thy  fading  fields  and  fells 

In  such  rich  garb  doth  autumn  come  to  thee, 
My  home  !  but  o'er  thy  mountains  and  thy  dells 

His  footsteps  fall  slowly  and  solemnly. 
Nor  flower  nor  bud  remaineth  there  to  him, 

Save  the  faint  breathing  rose,  that,  round  the  year, 
Its  crimson  buds  and  pale  soft  blossoms  dim, 

In  lowly  beauty  constantly  doth  wear. 
O'er  yellow  stubble  lands  in  mantle  brown 

He  wanders  through  the  wan  October  light : 
Still  as  he  goeth,  slowly  stripping  down 

The  garlands  green  that  were  the  spring's  delight. 
At  morn  and  eve  thin  silver  vapors  rise 

Around  his  path  :  but  sometimes  at  mid-day 
He  looks  along  the  hills  with  gentle  eyes. 

That  make  the  sallow  woods  and  fields  seem  gay. 
Yet  something  of  sad  sovereignty  he  hath — 

A  sceptre  crown'd  with  berries  ruby  red, 
And  the  cold  sobbing  wind  bestrews  his  path 

With  wither'd  leaves,  that  rustle  'neath  his  tread  ; 
And  round  him  still,  in  melancholy  state, 

Sweet  solemn  thoughts  of  death  and  of  decay, 
In  slow  and  hush'd  attendance,  ever  wait. 

Telling  how  all  things  fair  must  pass  away. 


SNORERS. 


BY  THEODORE  S.  FAY. 


Thou  dost  snore  distinctly, — 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores.— Tempest. 


Has  it  ever  befallen  thee,  gentle  reader,  to  sleep 
in  a  crowded  hotel,  in  an  apartment  shared  by  se- 
veral others,  or  in  a  stage  travelling  all  night,  or 
on  board  a  steamboat  ?  If  so,  you  have  suffered  from 
a  nuisance,  we  fear,  beyond  the  reach  of  satire,  viz. 
snoring.  Whether  it  is  an  Americanism,  like 
whittling,  spitting,  putting  the  feet  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  wearing  hats  with  a  long  nap,  we  do  not 
at  this  time  wish  to  discuss ;  nor  whether  it  is  one 
of  those  general  evils  incidental  to  human  nature, 
but  we  do  sa}'^,  that  your  regular  snorer  is  an  enemy 
to  society,  and  ought  either  to  cure  his  propensity, 
or  turn  hermit.  Our  object  in  writing  this  is  to  so- 
licit the  attention  of  the  learned  to  a  subject  inti- 
mately connected  with  human  comfort,  that  some 
means  may  be  adopted  either  to  have  the  class  of 
snorers  kept  distinct  from  other  people,  in  a  differ- 
ent part  of  the  town,  and  compelled  to  travel  in  a 
line  of  stages  and  steamboats  constructed  expressly 
for  them  ;  or  else  to  check  the  propensity  in  early 


SNORERS.  69 

childhood,  by  a  rigid  course  of  education.  Our 
youth  are  taught  to  dance,  sing,  play  the  fiddle,  sit 
straight,  eat  with  a  fork,  and  be  virtuous,  but  not  a 
word  about  snoring;  not  a  hint  of  this  faculty; 
growing  up  in  the  secrecy  of  night,  like  a  rank 
weed,  within  their  character,  to  break  the  peace  of 
innocent  families,  and  ruin,  night  after  night,  that 
precious  balmy  slumber  which  lies,  or  should  lie,  so 
"  starkly  in  the  traveller's  bones.*'  Snorers  !  ^^'hy 
they  are  monsters.  We  avoid  them  in  all  our  rural 
peregrinations,  and  smile  inwardly  on  finding  their 
acquaintance  cultivated  by  unwary  strangers,  who 
little  think  what  a  trap  they  are  falling  into.  We 
are  one  of  that  extensive  class  of  human  creatuies 
who  enjoy  a  fair  night's  rest.  The  day  emphatic- 
ally belongs  to  earth.  We  yield  it  without  reluc- 
tance to  care  and  labor.  We  toil,  we  drudge,  we 
pant,  we  play  the  hack-horse  ;  we  do  things  smihng- 
ly  from  which,  in  secret,  we  recoil ;  we  pass  by 
sweet  spots,  and  rare  faces  that  our  very  heart 
yearns  for,  without  betraying  the  effort  it  costs ;  and 
thus  we  drag  through  the  twelve  long  hours,  dis- 
gusted almost,  but  gladdened  withal,  that  the  mask 
will  have  an  end,  and  the  tedious  game  be  over, 
and  our  visor  and  our  weapons  be  laid  aside.  But 
the  night  is  the  gift  of  heaven.  It  brings  freedom 
and  repose ;  its  influence  falls  coolly  and  gratefully 
upon  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body ;  and,  when  we 
drop  the  extinguisher  upon  the  light  which  glim- 
mers upon  the  round,  untouched  pillow,  we,  at  the 
same  time,  put  out  a  world  of  cares  and  perplexities. 


70  SNORERS. 

What,  then,  must  be  our  disappointment  to  find 
ourself  full  length,  side  by  side,  with  a  professed  re- 
gular-bred, full-blooded  snorer,  when  the  spell  of 
sleep  is  every  moment  forming  on  us  ;  and  as  often 
broken  by  the  anomalous,  incongruous,  nasal  voci- 
ferations, against  which,  at  this  particular  moment, 
we  are  endeavoring  to  excite  the  indignation  of  the 
reader  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  authorship,  how- 
ever, that  even  evils,  by  yielding  prolific  subjects  for 
the  pen,  become  a  source  both  of  amusement  and 
profit.  We  experienced  this  the  other  night,  when, 
returning  from  a  day's  absence,  the  traveller's  vicis- 
situdes sent  us  to  sleep  on  board  a  steamboat,  plying 
between  this  city  and  Alban3\  Fancy  our  per- 
plexity, good  reader  ;  you  know,  (or,  for  we  have 
been  hand  and  glove  with  you  for  so  long  a  time, 
you  ought  to  know,)  our  sly  peiichcmt  for  comfort 
— our  harmless  pieces  of  epicureanism  on  a  small 
scale — our  enjoyment  of  a  shady,  still  corner — our 
horror  of  being  pushed  and  thrust  about  ''  any 
how."  We  have  even,  on  occasions,  betrayed  too 
many  of  our  secret  tastes  and  antipathies,  and  have 
been  rated  sometimes  by  anonymous  correspondents, 
(those  familiar,  invisible  gentry,)  for  preferring  a 
slant  of  sunbeam  through  a  heavy  curtain  to  one 
that  comes  in  like  other  beams.  Imagine  us,  then, 
in  a  '•  night  boat,"  which  even  the  captain  confess- 
ed was  "  slow  ;"  the  wind  and  tide  against  us,  a  hot 
night,  numerous  passengers,  the  engine  heaving 
and  working  laboriously,  with  a  heavy  and  regular 


SNORERS.  71 

impulse,  that  jarred  through  the  massive  vessel  with 
jerks  and  shocks  like  little  earthquakesj  and  the 
subtle  languor  of  slumber  stealing  through  our 
hmbsj  and  hanging  on  our  eyelids.  A  hundred  or 
two  travellers  had  already  "  turned  in,"  and  we  were 
ushered  below  into  the  cabin,  and  directed  by  a 
clerk  to  a  berth,  w^here,  our  guide  informed  us,  we 
were  to  sleep.  To  sleep  !  AYe  looked  at  the  fellow's 
face.  It  was  perfectly  grave  and  respectful.  A 
glance  satisfied  us  he  had  intended  no  insult.  He 
left  us,  and  we  paused  to  look  around.  Ah  1  the 
cabin  of  a  steamboat  is  a  melancholy  affair  to  a 
sleepy  gentleman,  about  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  A 
dim  lamp,  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  shed  a  dole- 
ful light  upon  the  long,  low,  narrow  apartment. 
The  curtains  of  the  berths  were  mostly  drawn.  Di- 
vers boots,  which,  when  enlivened  by  their  respec- 
tive legs,  had  clambered  mountains  or  paced  over 
fields,  now  lay  in  groups  here  and  there,  and  hats, 
valises,  and  umbrellas,  rested  by  their  owners,  be- 
ing probably  the  only  vestiges  of  them  we  should 
ever  encounter.  One  fat  gentleman  had  just  lifted 
his  unwieldy  person  into  bed,  and  was  tying  a  ban- 
danna handkerchief  around  his  head,  preparatory 
to  his  lanching  off  into  glorious  repose ;  while  a 
cross-looking  lean  person  opposite,  having  wound 
up  his  watch,  and  rescued  his  feet  from  liis  boots, 
with  a  prodigious  deal  of  straining  and  ill-humor; 
having  with  considerable  difhculty  discovered  where 
lie  was  to  dispose  of  his  cloak  and  other  matters ; 
bumping  his  head,  nioreovei",  while  getting  into  his 


72  SXORERS. 

couch,  and  easing  the  pain  with  the  fragment  of  an 
execration,  at  length  also  disposed  of  himself  appa- 
rently to  his  satisfaction.  Few  things,  when  a  man 
is  really  out  of  humor,  exhaust  his  philosophy  more 
utterly  than  hitting  his  head  sharply  against  a  hard 
object.  My  friend  cursed  the  builder  of  the  steam- 
boat, in  a  half-smothered  growl,  and  then  all  was 
quiet.  4-nd  now  we  were  floating  off  into  a  plea- 
sant sleep,  when  a  low  and  gradually  increasing 
sound  from  the  berth  of  the  fat  gentleman  arrested 
our  attention.  We  listened,  all  was  silent ;  and  then 
again  the  same  sound,  more  palpable  and  better  de- 
veloped. It  was  at  first  a  long  breath,  of  the  con- 
sistency of  a  loud  whisper.  We  turned  over,  still  it 
went  on.  We  turned  back  again,  there  it  was  yet. 
We  rose  on  our  elbow,  in  a  passion,  and  poked  our 
head  out  between  the  red  curtains.  There  was 
the  fat  gentleman's  berth.  We  could  just  detect  a 
ghmpse  of  the  bandanna  handkerchief,  by  a  feeble 
glare  of  the  lamp.  Our  sleepy  eyes  passed  discon- 
solately over  the  boots  and  valises.  We  laid  down 
again,  but  could  not,  "with  all  the  weary  watching 
of  our  care-tired  thoughts,"  win  the  coy  dame  sleep 
to  our  bed.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Go  up  and  hit 
the  fat  gentleman  a  blow  ?  Impossible.  Complain 
to  the  captain  ?  He  would  laugh  at  us.  Never  was 
man  so  weighed  down,  so  oppressed  with  sleep,  and 
never  did  man  so  suffer  from  a  snorer.  The  fat 
gentleman,  as  if  aware  of  our  misery,  and  mocking 
it,  went  on,  like  an  orator  getting  warm  with  his 
subject.    He  grew  loud,  vociferous,  outrageous.    We 


SNORERS.  ^       "  73 

laid  and  listened.  He  inhaled,  he  exhaled.  Now 
the  air  rushed  in  between  his  extended  jaws,  now 
it  burst  forth  obstreperously  through  his  sonorous 
nose.  He  took  it  in  with  the  tone  of  an  octave  flute, 
he  let  it  out  again  with  the  profound  depth  of  a 
trombone.  He  breathed  short,  he  breathed  long ; 
he  gasped,  whistled,  groaned,  gurgled.  He  quick- 
ened the  time ;  became  rapid,  agitated,  furious. 

Hitherto  he  had  snored  with  the  sound  of  a  rush- 
ing, regular  stream,  hastening  onward  over  a  deep 
channel — now  it  was  the  brawl,  clash,  dash,  hurry, 
and  discordant  confusion  of  the  same  tide,  hurled 
down  a  cataract  of  broken  rocks — at  last  he  gavo 
an  abrupt  snort,  and  ceased  altogether.  We  were 
thanking  heaven  for  this  relief,  when  a  treble  voice 
from  the  berth  directly  beneath,  announced  new 
trouble.  It  was  some  one — whom,  we  knew  not, 
nor  do  we  ever  covet  his  friendship,  who  belonged 
to  a  different  class  of  snorers.  He  made  a  regular, 
quick,  sharp,  hacking  sound,  like  that  of  a  man 
cutting  wood.  Hack,  hack,  hack — we  heard  it  at 
intervals  all  night.  The  lean  gentleman,  in  the 
opposite  part  of  the  room,  now  put  in  his  claim  as 
a  snorer.  He  had  four  notes.  It  was  a  tune.  It 
could  be  written  and  played  any  day.  We  laughed 
outright,  and  inwardly  resolved  to  find  the  fellow 
out,  and  see  what  he  was  like  by  daylight.  He 
played  on  some  time,  and  then  finished  with  a  sud- 
den combination  of  sounds,  among  the  constituent 
parts  of  which  we  could  plainly  distinguish  a  hiss 
and  two  sneezes.     His  exit  reminded  us  of  those 

VOL.  I.  7 


74  SNORERS. 

pj^roteclinic  creations  to  be  seen  at  Niblo's,  Castle- 
gaiden,  6cc.  which  whirl  round  and  round  and 
roundj  and  then  explode  with  a  phiz  and  a  whiz, 
sure  to  be  bounteously  applauded  by  the  enlighten- 
ed audience.  There  w^as  something  in  this  gentle- 
man's snoring  which  touched  our  feelings.  A  fine 
spirited  fellow  he  was.  we  warrant.  Full  of  life  and 
animation,  and  not  inclined  to  hide  his  light  under 
a  bushel.  What  became  of  him,  however,  after  the 
explosion,  we  cannot  say.  He  left  a  dead  silence, 
and  his  evaporation  we  almost  lamented.  We 
should  like  to  know,  however,  whether  any  law 
can  be  put  in  requisition  against  these  gentry,  or 
why  we  have  not  the  same  right  to  practise  on  the 
trombone,  on  board  the  steamboat,  that  they  possess 
of  "  piercing  the  night's  dull  ear"  by  such  pompous 
displays  of  nasal  ability  ? 


OH,  JUDAH! 

Jerusalem  mom-neth.— Jeremiah. 

Oh,  Judah !  thy  dwellings  are  sad, 

Thy  children  are  weeping  around, 
In  sackcloth  their  bosoms  are  clad 

As  they  look  on  the  famishing  ground  ; 
In  the  deserts  they  make  them  a  home, 

And  the  mountains  awake  to  their  cry ; 
For  the  frown  of  Jehovah  hath  come, 

And  his  anger  is  red  in  the  sky. 

Thy  tender  ones  throng  at  the  brink. 

But  the  waters  are  gone  from  the  well ; 
They  gaze  on  the  rock,  and  they  think 

Of  the  gush  of  the  stream  from  its  cell; 
How  they  came  to  its  margin  before. 

And  drank  in  their  innocent  mirth ; 
Away !  it  is  sealed,  and  no  more 

Shall  the  fountain  give  freshness  to  earth. 

The  hearts  of  the  mighty  are  bowed, 

And  the  lowly  are  haggard  with  care  ; 
The  voices  of  mothers  are  loud. 

As  they  shriek  the  wild  note  of  despair. 
Oh,  Jerusalem  I  mourn  through  thy  halls, 

And  bend  to  the  dust  in  thy  shame, 
For  the  doom  that  thy  spirit  appals. 

Is  famine,  the  sword,  and  the  flame ! 


THE  UNEDUCATED  MIFE. 


IN    FOUR    CHAPTERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 


At  the  close  of  a  gloomy  da}-  in  November,  Albert 
Fitzgerald,  a  young  man  of  very  elegant  and  inter- 
esting appearance,  found  he  had  missed  his  way, 
and  was  descending  a  lonely  hill  that  ended  in  a 
thick  forest.  He  stopped  before  he  entered  the  dreary 
road  and  cast  an  inquiring  and  eager  gaze  around ; 
but  saw  no  alternative  except  to  go  on,  or  retrace 
his  steps,  and  ascend  the  long  tedious  hill. 

"  This  is  abominable."  said  he,  as  he  pulled  the 
reins  of  his  tired  beast.  "I  should  be  quite  unwilling 
to  make  a  supper  for  some  hungry  wolf  or  bear ;  it 
would  be  a  most  inglorious  end  to  my  journey,  and 
not  at  all  consistent  with  deeds  of  noble  daring  ;  but 
perhaps  there  are  no  such  prowlers  here,  and  at  all 
events  it  is  a  straight  path — I  can  try  it  a  mile  or 
two,  and  if  I  see  or  hear  any  thing  alarming,  I  can 
return.  It  will  not  be  very  soldier-like,  to  be  sure, 
to  run  from  the  euemy  ;  but  there  is  none  to  trum- 
pet my  fame  in  this  wood—so  come  on,  my  tired 
dapple!" 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 


n 


The  evening  was  fast  closing,  and  he  could  only- 
ride  slowly,  and  with  great  caution,  as  the  stumps 
of  the  trees  often  stood  many  feet  high  and  much 
impeded  his  progress.  After  he  had  been  riding  for 
some  time,  the  snow  commenced  falhng,  and  Fitz- 
gerald began  to  be  seriously  alarmed,  when,  sudden- 
l}'-,  a  bright  light  shone  through  the  underwood  at 
no  great  distance.  He  galloped  quickl}'  on,  and  saw 
to  his  surprise  and  delight,  a  very  comfortable  look- 
ing log  house  with  glazed  windows,  quite  an  uncom- 
mon thing  in  the  back  country. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,  '-'I  shall  share  with  some 
dozen  littb  white  heads,  each  striving  by  dirt  and 
clamour  to  make  me  as  uncomfortable  as  possible — 
well !  I  shall  at  least  have  a  shelter  from  the  bears 
and  the  weather." 

So  saying,  he  threw  the  bridle  around  a  stump, 
and,  springing  over  the  fence,  was  just  about  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  when  a  voice  of  great  melody  and 
sweetness  struck  on  his  ear,  singing  the  "  evening 
hymn."  He  stopped  ;  but  the  music  had  ceased.  He 
approached  without  noise  to  the  window,  and  what 
was  his  surprise,  his  emotion,  at  beholding,  in  a  se- 
cluded place  like  this,  the  most  beautiful  creature 
he  had  ever  seen.  Her  dress  was  that  of  a  rustic ; 
and  her  slight  person,  though  thus  unadorned, 
more  faultless  than  the  finest  models  he  had  ever 
gazed  on  in    the  halls  of  fashion  and   elegance. 

Fitzgerald  almost  doubted  his  senses ;  for  nothing 
mortal  seemed  to  him  half  so  lovely.  Her  little 
white  hands  and  dimpled  fingers  were  smoothing 


78  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

the  gvQ.y  hairs  of  a  most  noble-looking  old  man, 
who  sat  before  a  bright  fire.  His  face  was  pale  and 
care-worn.  His  large,  expressive  eyes  were  turned  on 
his  youthful  companion  with  a  tenderness  that  seem- 
ed to  efiect  her  much,  for  she  kissed  his  wrinkled 
cheeks  again  and  again ;  and  seemed  trying,  by  a 
thousand  winning  ways,  to  divert  him  from  his 
sorrows.  He  was  dressed  like  a  farmer ;  but  round 
his  chair  w^as  thrown  a  large  military  cloak,  appa- 
rently to  screen  him  from  the  weather,  one  corner 
of  which  covered  his  foot  that  rested  on  a  bench 
before  him.  The  room  was  clean  and  comfortable, 
though  it  contained  nothing  but  some  chairs,  a  table, 
and  a  shelf  with  books.  A  rush  mat  Avas  spread 
under  the  old  man's  seat,  and  a  few  cooking  uten- 
sils placed  in  a  large  stone  fire-place. 

Fitzgerald  stood  rivetted  to  the  spot,  scarcely  daring 
to  breathe  lest  he  should  break  the  charm  that  seem- 
ed to  detain  these  objects  in  his  sight ;  but  the  snow 
was  falling  fast,  and  the  horse  began  to  grow  restive. 
He  stept  gently  back  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,'^  said  the  old  man,  and  Fitzgerald  en- 
tered. 

"  Will  you  give  me  shelter  for  the  night,  sir,"  said 
he,  bowing,  '^  I  have  lost  my  way,  and  my  horse  is 
worn  out  with  this  day's  travel  ?'' 

"  With  pleasure,  sir,"'  was  the  reply.  "  We  can 
afford  you  a  shelter  ;  but  we  have  no  shelter  for  your 
tired  beast." 

"  Well  then,  he  must  take  his  chance  under  the 
forest  trees :  I  am  so  happy  not  to  be  obliged  to  share 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  79 

the  same  fate,  that  I  fear  I  shall  not  feel  the  sympa- 
thy for  him  I  ought.''* 

"  Isadore,  take  the  gentleman's  coat,  shake  off  the 
snow,  and  throw  it  over  the  rail  to  dry,  and  place  a 
chair  by  the  fire." 

She  moved  from  his  side,  where  she  had  nestled 
like  a  yoimg  fawn  or  a  timid  dove,  and  placing  a  seat, 
reached  out  that  beautiful  little  hand  for  the  coat ; 
but  he,  bowing  as  low  as  if  she  had  been  a  princess, 
said,  "  By  no  means,"  and  laid  it  aside  himself,  while 
Isadore,  blushing  and  composed  again,  drew  close 
to  her  aged  companion. 

Fitzgerald  had  never  felt  so  much  at  a  loss  for 
conversation.  To  meet  two  such  beings  in  a  thick 
forest,  so  far  from  any  human  habitations,  seemed 
so  strange  that  he  scarce  knew  how  to  address  them  ; 
but  the  old  gentleman  began  asking  him  about  the 
road,  how  far  he  had  traveled,  &c.,  and  told  him 
he  was  more  than  thirty  miles  from  the  place 
he  had  inquired  for,  and  wliich  he  thought  of  reach- 
ing that  night. 

"  But,"  said  he,  *•  if  you  can  be  contented  with  a 
little  bread  and  milk,  and  a  bear  skin  for  a  bed,  you 
are  most  heartily  welcome.'' 

"  I  wish  no  better  fare,  sir,  and  shall  feel  grateful 
for  your  hospitality." 

"  You  see  I  am  almost  a  cripple,  so  my  little  grand- 
daughter must  do  the  honors  of  my  humble  abode.'' 

The  white  table  was  set  before  him  with  bread, 
milk,  and  dried  venison  ;  and  Albert  thought  he  had 
never  made  a  more  delicious  meal.  They  were  soon 


80  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

all  quietly  settled  for  the  night.  The  old  man  was 
helped  to  his  room  by  his  gentle  child ;  and  Albert 
lay  before  the  fire  wondering  and  thinking  who  they 
could  be,  until  nature  could  no  longer  support  him 
and  he  sunk  to  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  a  bright  fire  was 
snapping  and  crackling  in  the  room,  and  the  old 
man  was  in  his  arm-chair  with  the  table  before  him. 

"  We  were  sorry  to  disturb  you.  sir,"  said  ho;  "but 
©ur  place  is  not  a  very  commodious  one.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  old  song — 'It  served  him  for  parlour^  for 
kitchen^  and  JtalV  *' 

While  he  was  speaking  Isadore  entered,  her  beau- 
tiful hair  covered  w^ith  snow-flakes,  and  her  whole 
face  radiant  with  smiles  and  beauty.  An  Indian 
came  with  her,  bearing  a  basket.  He  remained  some 
time  talking  with  the  old  gentleman,  who  under- 
stood the  language,  and  Fitzgerald  knew  enough 
of  it  to  hear  him  say, 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  When  he  turned  and  said, 

''  I  think,  sir,  you  have  a  right  to  know  whom 
you  have  so  kindly  sheltered — my  name  is  Albert 
Fitzgerald." 

"  Fitzgerald  !  Was  the  name  of  your  father  Cam^ 
bell  Fitzgerald?" 

"It  was." 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  "  yon  are  more  than  wel- 
come. Your  father  w^as  my  friend,  and  as  brave  a 
soldier  as  ever  marched  to  battle." 

"  You  knew  my  father  then,  sir  ?"  and  Fitzgerald 
stept  before  him. 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  gX 

"  Yes,  and  well  do  I  remember  the  day  on  which 
we  parted — parted  to  meet  no  more.  It  was  after  a 
glorious  victory  !  I  called  to  say  farewell,  as  at  day- 
break I  was  to  leave  that  part  of  the  country.  He 
was  stretched  on  a  pallet — the  surgeon  preparing  to 
dress  his  wounds.  He  opened  his  eyes  as  I  entered 
and  told  my  purpose.  '  General,'  said  he,  stretching 
out  his  hand  to  me,  and  all  the  fire  of  the  soldier 
sparkling  for  a  moment  in  his  heavy  eyes  as  he 
spoke, '  we  shall  drive  these  intruders  from  our  land. 
Heaven  bless  you,  farewell !'  He  was  never  well 
enough  to  return  to  the  arm}^,  and  I  never  had  an 
opportunity  to  see  him  again." 

Albert  listened  with  surprise.  The  old  man  for- 
got his  lameness — he  stood  up,  and  his  tall  figure 
seemed  almost  gigantic,  while  the  whole  expression 
of  his  face  was  changed  :  it  glowed  with  animation 
as  he  took  Fitzgerald  by  the  hand. 

"  Thrice  welcome  to  my  home  and  heart,"  said 
he,  "  thou  son  of  an  old  friend.  Young  man,  poor 
and  forlorn  as  I  now  appear,  I  once  commanded 
armies,  and  this  arm,"  extending  it  as  he  spoke,  "was 
ever  ready  to  draw  the  sword  in  defence  of  his  un- 
grateful country.     My  name  is  Charlton." 

"  General  Charlton  I"  said  Fitzgerald,  pressing  his 
hand  between  both  his  ow^n.  "I  have  often  heard 
my  beloved  mother  speak  of  your  covering  my  father 
with  your  cloak,  and  coming  for  him  with  a  litter, 
which  saved  his  invaluable  life.'' 

"  These,  my  son,  were  the  chances  and  changes 
of  war ;  but,''  and  he  sighed  deeply,  "  we  who  have 


82  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

toiled  and  bled,  spent  all ! — j'es  all,  even  our  paternal 
inheiitanccj  in  the  country's  service,  cannot  choose 
but  weep  almost  tears  of  blood,  when  we  find  our- 
selves beggars  on  the  soil  we  have  so  warmly  defend- 
ed,— find  ourselves  unnoticed  and  unknown  by  the 
sons,  who  at  ease  in  their  possessions,  feel  not,  care 
not  for  the  pangs  of  those  who  obtained  for  them 
their  choicest  blessings.  Picture  to  yourself,  sir,  a 
young  man  well  born,  well  educated,  rich,  of  great 
expectations,  sacrificing  all  for  the  cause  of  freedom, 
and  losing  all  for  his  country  ;  and  when  in  old  age, 
worn  out,  crippled,  unable  any  longer  to  be  useful, 
looking  to  that  country  for  support,  feeling  that  jus- 
tice demands  prompt  attention  to  his  claims ;  wait- 
ing day  after  day,  week  after  week,  year  after  year, 
until  weary,  heart-sick  and  disgusted,  he  retires  to 
some  solitary  abode,  and  finds  among  savages  a 
better  home  than  his  countrymen  are  willing  to  be- 
stow. This — this!  young  man,  is  the  fate  of  the 
veterans  of  the  revolution." 

The  General  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  sunk  back  exhausted  by  his  emotions  .Albert 
felt  the  blood  mounting  to  his  face  at  the  recollection 
of  the  ingratitude  of  the  government ;  yet  remem- 
bering that  he  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  aid  the 
cause  of  these  disinterested  but  unfortunate  men,  he 
told  the  General,  after  a  pause  of  some  moments, 
that  he  should  feel  proud  to  assist  him  in  any  way ; 
that  his  fortune  was  ample,  and  that  he  could  not 
use  it  more  to  his  satisfaction  than  in  making  the 
friend  of  his  father  happy. 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  §3 

"Happy!"  said  he,  as  be  raised  his  mournful  eyes 
to  Albert;  "  I  am  almost  at  my  journey's  end :  could 
I  but  behold  this  forest  flower,  this  only  tie  to  earth, 
safely  situated  in  the  world,  I  should  die  contented." 
He  pressed  the  gentle  creature  to  his  bosom,  and 
sobbed  audibly. 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Isadore,  "  grieve  not  for 
me,  we  are  very  happy  here,  and  you  have  a  new 
friend  now,  who  will  not  let  your  little — ." 

She  stopped,  blushed,  and  hid  her  face  on  her 
grandfather's  shoulder,  fearing  she  had  said  too 
much. 

Albert  wished  she  had  finished  the  sentence,  and 
thought  that  to  shelter  her  from  harm  he  would 
willingly  pass  the  rest  of  his  days  in  the  forest. 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  snow  continued  to  fall,  and  the  roads  were 
impassable  ;  his  horse  had  disappeared,  and  Albert 
had  no  alternative  but  to  await  the  clearing.  To 
find  his  way  was  impossible  ;  besides  he  would  have 
staid  with  a  more  trifling  excuse,  so  much  was  he 
interested  in  the  beautiful  Isidore.  Weeks  passed, 
and  Albert  still  hngered,  endeavoring  to  procure  a 
horse  and  guide. 

Conversing  with  the  old  gentleman,  he  learned 
his  sad  story :  learned  that,  fired  with  ardor  in  the 


S4  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

cause  of  liberty,  he  had  left  a  delightful  home  and 
his  lovely  daughter  IMarion,  the  mother  of  Isidore, 
in  the  care  of  a  favorite  sister,  and  embarked  for 
this  countr}^,  where  he  remained  during  the  war, 
constantly  drawing  on  his  own  funds.  I'ecling  cer- 
tain of  the  final  success  of  the  American  cause,  he 
had  no  doubt  of  being  remunerated  for  all.  In  the 
meantime  Marion  married  an  interesting  young 
German,  and  the  old  general  persuaded  and  finally 
prevailed  on  him  to  join  the  army.  The  unfortu- 
nate young  man  was  severely  wounded  in  the  first 
campaign,  which  caused  his  death  in  a  few  years 
after.  The  old  general,  grieved  to  the  heart  that 
he  had  been  the  means  of  interrupting  so  much 
happiness,  promised  his  daughter  that  he  would 
come  and  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  with  her  as 
soon  as  his  claims  were  settled,  which  he  thought 
would  be  speedily.  At  the  close  of  the  year  she 
wrote  to  inform  him,  that  if  he  ever  wished  to  see 
her  alive,  he  must  come  soon,  as  she  felt  she  could 
not  live  many  months. 

The  heart-stricken  father  embarked  immediately, 
and  found  his  child  just  alive  on  his  arrival.  He 
was  almost  overwhelmed  with  grief;  but  Marion, 
far  from  lamenting  her  early  exit,  said,  "It  is  the 
will  of  heaven,  and  I  have  but  these  ties  to  earth," 
placing  her  slender  and  almost  transparent  hand  on 
the  fair  brow  of  the  little  Isidore,  and  looking  ten- 
derly at  her  father.  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth,  that  there  is  a  house  not  made  with  hands 
for  me  in  heaven.    I  give  you  my  child,  certain 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  g5 

that  while  you  live  you  will  be  a  father  to  her ;  and 
I  trust,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  have  her  piously  edu- 
cated, for  even  my  short  life  has  taught  me  that 
'  there  is  nothing  true  but  heaven.'  " 

She  died  soon  after  this  conversation,  and  the  un- 
fortunate old  man,  as  he  followed  her  to  the  tomb, 
felt  almost  broken-hearted.  He  settled  his  affairs, 
and  found  that  such  calls  had  been  made  on  his  es- 
tate, that,  after  paying  all  his  debts,  he  had  but  a 
thousand  pounds.  Embarrassed  with  the  httle  girl, 
(for  his  own  sister  was  dead,  and  he  had  no  near 
relation)  he  concluded  to  write  to  jMadame  Waldorf, 
the  aunt  of  Isidore,  her  father's  only  sister,  and  re- 
quest her  to  take  the  care  of  the  orphan  until  he 
could  come  and  claim  her.  He  wrote  that  his 
adopted  country  was  indebted  to  him  for  services 
and  expenditures,  and  he  doubted  not  that  he 
should  receive  principal  and  interest,  which  would 
then  enable  him,  when  settled  in  his  own  house,  to 
send  for  his  grand-daughter. 

She  answered  his  letter  immediately  ;  and  after, 
as  the  general  said,  many  sage  remarks,  concluded 
by  saying,  "  she  had  done  all  in  her  power  to  pre- 
vent her  brother's  leaving  his  pleasant  home  and 
lovely  wife  to  follow  a  phantom — a  will  o'  the  wisp, 
which  he  called  glory.  It  had  led  him,  where  she 
expected,  to  death !  That  General  Charlton  had 
made  him  foiget  what  he  had  been  taught  at  home, 
namely,  that  true  patriotism  did  not  consist  in  run- 
ning after  liberty,  Init  in  doing  our  duty  as  fathers, 
husbands,  and  children  in  the  station  and  in  the 

VOL.  I.  8 


85  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

country  where  Providence  has  placed  us.  That 
she  dechned  taking  the  little  girl,  and  thought  that 
if  he  intended  to  forsake  his  native  country,  he  had 
better  take  her  with  him  and  make  a  savage  of  her 
at  once." 

Vexed  and  troubled  at  this  severe  reproof,  he  de- 
termined to  quit  the  country  for  ever,  and  take  Isi- 
dore with  him. 

He  was  soon  quietly  settled  near  Philadelphia, 
where  he  waited  patiently  a  long  time ;  but  at  last, 
weary  and  disheartened,  finding  his  funds  gone, 
and  fearing  that  even  his  friends  were  tired  of  him, 
he  took  Isidore,  and  retired  quite  back  into  the 
country,  to  hide  himself  and  his  sorrows  from  the 
world. 

One  day,  being  in  pursuit  of  game,  he  met  an 
old  Indian  chief,  whose  life  he  had  once  saved  in  a 
skirmish,  took  him  to  his  tent  and  kept  him  imtil 
he  was  able  to  go  back  to  his  tribe.  Sanaqua  en- 
treated the  general  to  go  with  him. 

"  My  nation,"  says  he,  "  are  grateful ;  they  will 
love  the  white  warrior  who  saved  their  chief's  life 
— they  will  make  a  house,  and  give  him  corn — he 
can  himself  shoot  the  deer — come  witli  us." 

The  old  man  went ;  and  true  to  the  word  of  the 
chief,  they  supplied  him  with  every  thing  necessary 
to  support  life.  The  little  Isidore  they  almost  wor- 
shipped ;  called  her  by  every  tender  epithet,  and 
brought  her  every  dainty  they  could  find ;  but,  as 
he  concluded,  he  said,  "Ami  not  supported  by  cha- 
nty ! — by  the  charity  of  savages,  while  my  coun- 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  §7 

trymen  refuse  to  share  with  me  the  blessings  which 
I  have  toiled  and  bled  to  obtain  ?" 

He  trembled  and  turned  pale,  his  limbs  seemed 
to  lose  their  strength,  and  but  for  tlie  support  of 
Fitzgerald,  he  would  have  sunk  on  the  floor.  He 
tried  to  soothe  and  comfort  him,  by  telling  him  that 
as  soon  as  the  weather  was  fit  he  would  provide  a 
vehicle,  and  take  him,  with  Isidore,  to  liis  own  pa- 
ternal mansion  ;  he  shoukl  have  his  fathers  study 
and  his  room,  with  all  the  comforts  his  old  age  re- 
quired. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  for  a  few  days,  as  I  have  a 
tract  of  land  in  this  country  that  I  wish  to  see  J 
and  then  return  with  such  a  conveyance  as  will 
make  our  journey  agreeable." 

Fitzgerald  dared  not  trust  himself  to  say  any 
thing  of  Isidore.  He  felt  he  loved  her,  and  he 
thought  the  old  general  would  object  to  his  speak- 
ing of  marrying  the  child,  as  he  always  called  her. 
The  old  man  said,  as  he  took  his  hand,  "  My  dear 
son,  you  are  a  friend  indeed.  I  rejoice  to  see  that 
America  has  still  some  noble  scions  from  the  parent 
tree,  that  promise  to  overshadow  the  land." 

While  Fitzgerald  remained,  he  had  constant  op- 
portunities of  seeing  the  beautiful  and  gentle  girl. 
He  saw  her  devoted  attention  to  her  grandfather, 
her  patient  sweetness  at  all  times,  her  industry  and 
neatness.  How  often  did  he  wonder,  that  with  so 
limited  a  wardrobe,  she  was  always  so  neat  and  be. 
comingly  arrayed.  He  knew  not,  that  rather  than 
appear  to  disadvantage  before  one  that  she  tJiought 


88  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

quite  too  perfect  for  a  human  being,  she  had  sat  up 
nights  that  all  might  be  in  order  during  the  day. 
A  more  disinterested  lovely  creature  nature  never 
formed,  but  she  \vas  just  as  nature  formed  her ; 
and  Albert  Fitzgerald,  enamored  with  her  beauty, 
delighted  with  her  artless  loveliness,  forgot  that  he 
did  not  live  among  savages,  and  that  a  wife  for  him 
should  be  well  educated  and  accustomed  to  good 
society.  He  forgot  that  all  his  life  had  been  spent 
in  cultivating  and  improving  his  own  mind  ;  forgot 
how  often  his  beloved  and  accomplished  mother 
had  drawn  the  hkeness,  with  a  master's  hand,  of 
the  woman  she  should  be  proud  to  call  daughter. 

But  Isidore,  the  sweet,  the  exquisitely  beautiful 
Isidore,  had  put  all  reflection  and  reason  aside,  and 
he  determined  to  ask  her  of  the  old  general  on  his 
return. 

Some  days  passed  ere  he  could  procure  a  guide 
to  suit  him.  Watapan,  a  friend  of  the  general,  con- 
sented at  last  to  go  with  him.  Ere  he  left,  he  took 
General  Charlton  by  the  hand,  and  begged  he  would 
lay  all  his  cares  aside,  and  try  to  get  well  enough 
to  accompany  him  back.  The  old  man  sighed, 
looked  tenderly  at  his  daughter,  and  said — 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son  ;  if  any  thing  happens 
to  me,  I  know  you  will  be  a  father  to  this  innocent 
child." 

Albert's  face  was  crimson  ;  the  word  "  father" 
had  embarrassed  him  so  much,  that  when  he  took 
Isidore's  hand,  instead  of  speaking,  he  only  pressed 
it  to  his  lips,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.     She 


THE  UiNEDUCATED  WIFE.  §9 

was  pale  as  marble,  and  trembled  so  much,  that 
Fitzgerald  was  surprised,  and  almost  inclined  to 
think  he  was  in  some  way  the  cause.     He  said — 

'•'  You  are  ill,  Isidore  ;  come  into  the  air ;"  and 
leading  her  to  the  door,  stood  by  her  until  the  blood 
came  rushing  to  her  cheeks  and  temples;  then 
again  pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  mounted 
his  horse  and  galloped  away,  leaving  her  leaning 
against  the  door. 

Isidore  had  never  seen  any  one  to  love  but  her 
grandfather;  she  was  grateful  to  tlic  Indians  for 
their  goodness  to  her,  but  Fitzgerald  was  above 
any  thing  she  had  ever  conceived,  and  she  looked 
up  to  him  with  such  devotion  and  reverence,  that 
he  was  worshipped  more  than  loved.  She  only 
thought  of  him  as  a  friend  of  her  father.  To  be  his 
wife  never  entered  her  innocent  thoughts. 

A  month  passed,  and  no  tidings  of  Albert.  The 
old  general  had  been  quite  ill  for  some  days.  Isi- 
dore had  made  liim  a  bed  of  dried  leaves  and  bear- 
skins near  the  fire,  and  had  exhausted  all  her  httle 
skill  as  a  nurse,  but  his  pale  looks  and  faltering 
voice  alarmed  her.  One  evening,  after  a  restless 
day,  she  knelt  down  beside  him  to  bathe  his  tem- 
ples, and  began  singing  the  evening  hymn,  but  tlie 
general  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  putting  aside 
the  glossy  curls  that  hung  over  Iier  polished  fore- 
head, said,  as  he  gazed  on  her, 

"  I  have  made  shipwreck  of  the  happiness  of  all 
that  I  loved.     As  your  aunt  said— I  have  followed 
8* 


90  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

a  pliantoin T  fear  something  has  happened  to 

our  friend  Albert,  and  my  stay  here  is  short." 

Isidore  shuddered,  trembled,  and  seemed  almost 
fainting-. 

'•  Grieve  not  for  me,"  he  said.  "  I  am  an  old  man, 
and  can  scarce  expect  to  remain  much  longer  with 
you.  Should  you  see  no  more  of  Fitzgerald,  get  the 
Indians  to  take  you  to  the  nearest  sea-port,  and  go 
to  Germany  to  your  aunt  Waldorff.  She  is  noble 
and  well  educated,  and  cannot,  when  she  sees  you, 
refuje  you  her  protection.  But  you  may  trust  our 
young  friend  without  fear." 

He  drew  her  head  to  his  bosom,  and  raising  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  seemed  for  a  while  absorbed  in 
thought.  The  noise  of  voices  disturbed  them  :  the 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  Fitzgerald  entered  with 
a  joy-beaming  face,  exclaiming,  "I  have  come  for 
you,  my  dear  sir," — but  the  pale  cheek  and  trem- 
bling hand  of  Isidore  checked  his  eagerness :  and 
when  he  took  the  old  man's,  he  was  startled  at  its 
feverish  heat. 

"  You  are  ill,"  said  he,  "  but  you  will,  I  trust, 
soon  be  better,  for  I  have  many  comforts  for  you  in 
my  snug  warm  carriage." 

The  general  looked  kindly  on  him,  pressed  his 
hand,  and  sighed  deeply.  The  Indians  entered 
with  his  baggage,  which  they  assisted  him  to  open, 
and  he  produced  many  little  comforts  that  seemed 
to  revive  his  friend,  for  he  sat  up  and  conversed 
quite  cheerfully.  Isidore  resigned  her  place  for  the 
night  to  Albert,  and  took  some  repose,  of  which  she 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  gj 

was  much  in  need.  Several  days  passed  in  the 
same  way,  and  Albert  began  to  fear  the  old  man 
was  faihng  fast. 

One  morning,  after  a  very  restless  night,  he  said. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  I  fear  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  go  to  your  liome,  but  I  shall  die  in  peace  if 
you  will  be  a  father  to  my  child." 

Again  the  blood  rushed  to  the  cheeks  and  brow 
of  Fitzgerald,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  silent ;  but 
recovering  himself,  he  said — 

"  I  will  protect  and  defend  her  with  my  hfe  ;  but, 
my  dear  sir,  will  you  not  give  me  a  nearer  and 
dearer  claim  to  protect  her  ?  Give  her  to  me  for  a 
wife !" 

The  old  man  started,  and  looked  up  to  Fitz- 
gerald— 

"  Wife  !  wife  ! — she  is  a  mere  baby.'*' 

"  I  know  she  is  young  ;  but  she  is  old  enough  to 
take  good  care  of  you,  my  dear  sir,  and  old  enough 
to  make  me  happy.'' 

"  Young  man,  son  of  my  friend,  do  nothing  rash- 
ly— a  wife  is  not  the  plaything  of  an  hour,  a  toy 
merely  to  look  upon — but  a  companion  for  life ; 
choose  one  that  will  be  a  comjjanioii.,  a  friend  ;  one 
who  will  at  all  times  be  ready  to  assist  you  with 
mind  and  heart.  You  have  a  vigorous  intellect, — 
a  mind  stored  with  useful  knowledge,  and  should 
have  a  well  educated  and  intelligent  wife." 

Fitzgerald  sighed.  He  recollected  how  often  his 
mother  had  cautioned  him  against  being  fascinated 
with  beauty ;  but  the  soft  voice  of  Isidore  in  the 


92  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

next  room,  singing  one  of  his  favorite  hymns,  put 
all  reason  and  reflection  asleep. 

"  She  must  be  mine,  father,  if  you  do  not  object, 
and  she  will  accept  me  " 

The  general  smiled. 

"  Oh,  she  will  not  refuse  you — and  alas,  I  know 
too  well  how  headstrong  and  self-willed  the  young 
are.  If  you  are  determined  to  marry  her,  I  will  say 
no  more.  For  myself,  I  should  be  proud  to  see  her 
your  wife." 

Albert's  eyes  sparkled  with  joy  ;  and  he  soon 
made  known  his  hopes  and  wishes  to  the  beautiful 
and  gentle  Isidore. 

The  weather  was  delightful,  and  Albert  felt  ex- 
tremely anxous  to  be  on  his  way ;  but  the  general 
was  evidently  failing.  One  day  they  had  been  talk- 
ing of  their  journey,  and  had  just  raised  him  into 
the  arm-chair  that  he  might  see  the  sun  set,  when 
the  old  Indian  entered  with  a  large  packet.  The 
general  opened  it  with  eagerness,  and  saw  that  his 
claims  on  his  country  were  acknowledged  and  set- 
tled. He  started  convulsively  from  his  chair — "  It 
is  too  late  /"  he  exclaimed  ;  then  clasping  his  ema- 
ciated hands  together,  crushed  the  papers  between 
them,  and  fell  dead  upon  the  floor ! 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  93 


CHAPTER  III. 


It  is  impossible  to  give  any  idea  of  the  agony  and 
grief  of  Isidore ;  she  seemed  almost  beside  herself; 
and  Fitzgerald,  alarmed  for  her  health,  hurried  her 
away  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  burial  of  the  old 
general,  who  was  followed  to  his  humble  grave  by 
his  two  children  and  the  faithful  Indians. 

I  shall  pass  over  their  journey.  Isidore's  wonder 
at  the  towns  and  cities  they  visited,  and  the  con- 
summation of  their  wishes  in  an  union,  which,  as 
it  was  founded  on  the  most  disinterested  attach- 
ment, promised  uninterrupted  happiness. 

It  was  many  months  after  their  marriage,  before 
Fitzgerald  took  his  wife  to  his  residence  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson.  It  was  a  most  dehghtful 
place — large,  convenient,  and  elegant ;  and  the  gen- 
tle Isidore  thought,  as  she  wandered  through  the 
superb  apartments,  how  gratified  her  dear  grand- 
father would  have  been  to  see  her  mistress  of  such 
an  establishment,  and  the  wife  of  such  a  man  as 
Fitzgerald.  The  library  was  her  favorite  apart- 
ment. There  was  a  most  romantic  view  of  the 
windings  of  the  river  from  its  windows ;  it  was 
commodious  and  well  furnished  with  the  most  va- 
luable books,  and  all  that  was  necessary  for  the 
employment  of  an  enhghtened  and  cultivated  mind, 
and  the  requisites  for  improving  an  ignorant  one. 
Isidore  was  too  timid  to  ask  questions.  She  idol- 
ized her  husband  :  looked  up  to  him  with  a  reve- 
rence, a  respect,  that  placed  her  at  such  a  distance 


94  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

from  him,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  enter  into 
the  feelings  of  her  mind  or  heart.  Indeed  there 
was  no  one  that  she  could  make  her  confidant. 

They  had  now  been  six  months  married.  Part 
of  the  time  had  been  spent  in  travelling,  and  part 
at  their  delightful  residence.  Fitzgerald  had  brought 
home  a  distant  relation  of  his  for  a  companion  and 
friend  to  Isidore.  She  was  fashionable,  and  ap- 
peared amiable ;  and  he  thought  that  the  genteel 
Caroline  Morland  would  be  useful  to  his  lovely 
wife,  as  she  would  need  initiating  into  the  polished 
circles  which  she  must  unavoidably  enter.  Many 
of  his  friends  had  called  to  see  them  ;  all  were  loud 
in  praise  of  the  exquisite  little  girl  he  had  married. 
The  house  he  knew  would  soon  be  filled  with  visit- 
ers from  the  city.  He  relied  upon  Caroline  as  a 
chaperone ;  but  still  he  was  too  proud  to  acknow- 
ledge that  his  beautiful  wife  needed  any  instruc- 
tion ;  and  he  feared  it  would  pain  her  affectionate 
heart  to  inform  her  of  her  deficiencies.  He  was  as- 
tonished to  see  that  the  lovely  creature  v/ho,  in  the 
forest  shades,  moved  with  the  grace  of  a  young 
fawn,  Avas,  in  the  drawing  room,  when  surrounded 
with  a  fashionable  party,  stiff,  awkward,  and  em- 
barrassed. "  But  she  is  so  young — so  very  young," 
he  would  say,  "  it  will  soon  wear  off."  Yet  the 
very  remedy  he  had  provided  only  increased  the 
evil.  Caroline  was  envious,  indolent,  and  selfish  ; 
and  the  gentle  and  amiable  Isidore  could  not  unbo- 
som herself  to  the  cold-hearted  votaress  of  fashion. 
She  sighed  often  when  she  felt  her  ignorance  and 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 


95 


awkwardness.  Her  devoted  love  to  Albert  made 
her  so  fearful  of  saying  any  thing  to  mortify  or  dis- 
turb him,  that  she  would  often  hesitate,  stop  and 
tremble  when  she  was  conversing,  and  saw  her 
husband's  eyes  fixed  on  her.  Fitzgerald  had  ex- 
pected, for  several  days,  some  particular  friends,  to 
Avhom  he  wished  his  wife  to  be  agreeable.  He  told 
her  one  morning,  as  she  stood  by  the  glass,  arrang- 
ing her  beautiful  hair,  that  Major  Harcourt  and 
Mr.  Campbell  would  be  wdth  them  on  the  follow- 
ing morning ;  and,  gently  pressing  her  hand,  he 
added : 

''  Be  yourself,  my  dear  Isidore  ;  imagine  that  we 
are  in  tbe  forest ;  that  my  friends  are  Sanaqua  and 
Watapan ;  let  me  see  you  easy  and  cheerful  before 
them.  Shake  off  that  timidity  and  fear  which  de- 
stroy all  your  movements.  They  are  both  elegant 
polished  gentlemen,  and — " 

He  stopped — for  he  felt  that  Isidore,  though  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  and  amiable,  w^as  not  a  compa- 
nion for  an  accomplished  man.  She  raised  her 
timid  eyes  to  his,  and  endeavored  to  smile  away 
her  emotion  ;  but  her  heart  was  full,  and  she  took 
down  her  hair  again  to  hide  the  tears  that  fell  upon 
her  bosom.  He  lifted  the  curls  from  her  brow",  and 
gently  kissing  her,  left  the  apartment. 

''  My  fears  are  true !"  said  she,  as  soon  as  the 
door  was  closed  ;  "he  is  ashamed  of  me.  Oh  !  my 
revered  grandfather,  you  were  right  when  you  said  a 
child  hke  me,  without  education,  could  never  make 
such  a  man  as  Albert  Fitzgerald  happy." 


96  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

She  pressed  her  forehead  with  her  hands,  leaned 
on  her  dressing  table,  and  ^vept  bitterly.  Little  did 
the  noble-minded  and  kind-hearted  Fitzgerald  know 
the  pain  he  had  inflicted.  He  loved  the  gentle  crea- 
ture deeply,  devotedly,  and  would  have  pierced  his 
own  bosom  sooner  than  wound  hers ;  but  he  began 
to  see  they  had  no  sentiments  in  common,  except 
their  love  of  nature.  She  looked  upon  her  husband 
almost  with  wonder  when  she  heard  him  display 
the  rich  treasures  of  his  polished  mind.  Worlds 
would  she  have  given  could  she  have  commanded 
them,  to  have  understood  and  conversed  with  him. 
She  read,  but  her  untutored  mind,  with  none  to  re- 
gulate and  guide  it,  w^as  little  benefited  by  books  ; 
besides,  they  had  crowds  of  company,  and  her  time 
had  been  much  occupied  in  walking  the  grounds, 
riding,  sailing,  music,  dancing,  and  visiting. 

Isidore  often  thought  how  much  happier  she 
could  have  been  with  Fitzgerald  in  the  wilderness. 
There  she  was  at  home ;  "  but  Aere,"  she  would 
say,  "  I  shall  be  almost  a  burthen  to  him  for  whom 
I  could  toil  for  ever." 

The  two  gentlemen  came,  and  Isidore,  knowing 
they  were  her  husband's  particular  friends,  took 
great  pains  with  her  attire,  and  she  never  looked 
more  beautiful  than  w^hen  she  entered  the  room, 
leaning  on  Fitzgerald's  arm.  They  gazed  on  her 
with  admiring  eyes,  and  soon  procured  a  seat  near 
her.  Had  her  husband  left  her,  all  would  have 
been  well ;  but  her  wounded  spirit  shrunk  from  his 
observation,  and  she  answered  only  in  monosylla- 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  97 

bles.  Finding  it  impossible  to  draw  her  into  con- 
versation, they  soon  retired  to  another  part  of  the 
room.  Carohne  Morland,  as  she  seated  herself  be- 
side her  on  the  sofa,  inquired, 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  good  cousin  to- 
day? You  look  quite  forlorn.  Has  your  canary 
bird  taken  flight,  or  your  little  spaniel  run  away  ?" 

Isidore  blushed;  she  saw  that  Major  Harcourt 
heard  the  salutation,  and  she  was  confused  and  dis- 
tressed. After  a  few  moments'  silence,  she  said  in 
a  low  voice — 

"  I  have  been  indisposed,  and  had  some  idea  of 
not  leaving  my  room ;  but  I  thought  a  walk  in  the 
air  might  be  of  service  to  me." 

^'  You  don't  look  very  ill,"  said  Caroline.  ''I  never 
saw  you  have  more  color ;  but  you  might  as  well 
have  remained  there,"  she  continued  in  an  under 
tone,  and  with  a  scornful  look,  "  we  should  scarcely 
have  missed  you." 

Isidore  felt  too  wretched  even  to  reply  to  this  un- 
feeling speech.  The  visiters  were  animated  and 
agreeable.  The  only  one  who  appeared  listless  and 
dispirited  w^as  the  innocent  mistress  of  the  mansion. 
She  was  unacquainted  Avith  fashionable  life;  and 
the  fear  of  saying  something  that  might  displease 
her  husband,  kept  her  silent.  He  saw  she  was 
dull ;  and  drawing  her  arm  within  his,  he  proposed 
a  walk  around  the  garden,  inviting  as  many  as 
chose  to  follow  him. 

"  Come,  Fitzgerald,"  said  Major  Harcourt,  as 
they  left  the  house,  "  you  are  too  selfish  ;  allow  me 

VOL.  I.  9 


98  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

the  honor, — "  and  attempted  to  take  the  arm  of  Isi- 
dore ;  but  she  chuig  to  her  husband,  who,  confused 
at  her  showing  so  much  rehictance  to  accept  the 
proffered  attention,  said,  as  he  hurried  her  down  a 
retired  avenue, 

"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  is  indisposed.  I  will  return  to 
you  directly."' 

When  they  were  quite  out  of  hearing,  he  begged 
to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  why  she  appear- 
ed so  unhappy.  She  sighed,  and  a  tear  shot  into 
her  eye. 

"  I  am  not  well ;  and — " 

"  Oh,  if  you  really  feel  ill,  retire ;  and  I  will  apo- 
logize to  our  guests." 

She  was  glad  to  avail  herself  of  the  opportunity, 
and  w^as  soon  quietly  seated  in  her  own  room. 

Many  weeks  passed  much  in  the  same  manner, 
and  Isidore  grew  more  and  more  w^eary  of  society. 
She  w^as  alone !  Her  only  enjoyment  w^as  w^alking 
around  the  estate,  comforting  the  sick,  and  playing 
with  the  children  of  the  tenants.  One  evening  she 
was  returning  from  such  an  excursion,  and  as  the 
sun  was  setting  behind  a  rich  curtain  of  crimson 
and  gold,  she  threw  herself  on  a  bank  under  the 
wall  of  a  summer  house,  covered  with  honeysuckle 
and  grape  vines,  to  enjoy  the  scene.  She  had  not 
been  there  long,  when  she  heard  voices ;  and  not 
wishing  to  be  seen,  drew  still  further  under  con- 
cealment. 

"It  is  in  vain  for  you  to  excuse  her  on  account 
of  her  being  young.     I  tell  you,  Harcourt,  she  is  a 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  99 

beautiful  fool ;  and  I  pity  Fitzgerald  most  sincerely^ 
He  has  been  fascinated  by  a  pair  of  bright  eyes. 
Did  you  see  the  expression  of  his  face  this  morn- 
ing, when  some  one  asked  her  which  was  her  fa- 
vorite hero  ?" 

'•'  I  did,  Campbell,  and  felt  for  the  distress  of  his 
lovely  wife  ;  but  do  3'ou  not  see  that  it  is  her  timid 
sweetness,  united  with  her  love  for  him,  that  makes 
her  appear  so  much  embarrassed  and  so  awkward. 
She  looks  upon  him  as  a  being  of  a  superior  order  ; 
and  her  very  anxiety  not  to  mortify  him,  causes 
half  her  mistakes.  There  was  no  cause  for  her 
tears  this  morning.  There  are  many  agreeable  and 
polite  women,  who  make  their  husbands  very  hap- 
py, that  know  nothing  of  Julius  Ccesar  or  Alexan- 
der ;  but  the  timid  creature  thought  she  ought  to 
know,  and  feared  that  her  husband  would  despise 
her  for  her  ignorance." 

'•  Well,  you  will  acknowledge  she  appears  like 
a  fool ;  and  that  she  can  never  make  Fitzgerald 
happy." 

"I  fear  she  never  will ;  but  she  does  not  seem  like 
a  fool  to  a  close  observer.  It  was  unfortunate  for 
her,  as  well  as  our  friend,  that  she  had  not  married 
some  poor  man ;  then  the  duties  and  cares  of  her 
station  would  have  wholly  occupied  her  attention, 
and  she  would  have  been  contented  ;  yet  I  am  con- 
vinced that  she  has  mind  enough,  if  it  could  be  pro- 
perly strengthened  and  cultivated.  AVere  she  a  fool, 
she  would  be  happy  here,  surrounded  with  every 
thing,  as  she  is,  to  please  the  eye  :  but  you  see 


too  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

she  is  not,  and  I  fear  never  will  be,  for  Fitzgerald 
cannot  send  her  away  to  school.  He  w^ould  not 
wound  her  gentle  nature  ;  and  she  has  not  resolu- 
tion to  leave  him  for  a  few  years.  If  she  had  but 
a  real  female  friend  to  advise  her, — if  the  mother 
of  Fitzgerald  were  but  alive  ;  but  Caroline  Morland 
is  too  envious  of  her  beauty  ever  to  be  a  friend  to 
Isidore." 

"  I  see  how  it  will  be ;  his  home  will  soon  be  un- 
interesting to  him,  and  he  will  travel  again ;  per- 
haps go  to  Europe  for  a  few  years.  Do  you  think, 
Harcourt,  such  a  haby  as  she  is  fit  to  leave  without 
a  protector  T 

'•  But  you  know,  my  friend,  she  will  not  always 
be  a  baby." 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  I  fear  she  will ;  but,  soft, 
here  is  Fitzgerald  coming  down  the  lawn ;  let's 
join  him." 

They  left  the  summer  house ;  and  the  trem- 
bling Isidore,  wdth  her  heart  sweUing  with  grief 
and  mortification,  remained  until  they  were  out 
of  sight ;  then  hastening  to  her  room,  she  locked 
the  door,  and  gave  vent  to  her  feelings.  When 
the  servant  came  to  call  her  to  tea,  she  was  really 
indisposed  ;  she  desired  him  to  tell  his  master  that 
she  was  in  bed  with  the  headache,  but  should  be 
quite  well  soon,  if  left  alone.  When  Fitzgerald  re- 
tired for  the  night,  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  sweet 
slumber ;  and  he  stood  by  the  window  some  mo- 
ments watching  the  moon,  over  which  the  fleecy 
clouds  moved  rapidly.     He  saw  the  spire  of  the 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  |qi 

church  iUumined  by  its  rays.     There  reposed  the 
remains  of  his  parents.     He  sighed  deeply. 

"  Oh  !  my  mother,  my  highly  gifted  and  accom- 
plished mother,"  said  Albert,  "  how  much  I  miss 
you — I  fear — " 

Again  he  sighed,  but  said  no  more.     Isidore  was 
so  much  agitated,  she  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
feign  sleep.     She  passed  a  restless  night ;  but  felt 
more  calm  in  the  morning,  for  her  resolution  was 
taken.    She  had  determined  to  leave  her  husband  ; 
and,  much  as  she  loved  him,  to  leave  him  for  ever, 
unless  she  could  qualify  herself  for  the  station  in 
which  he  had  placed  her.     She  was  much  more 
composed,  and  appeared  to  more  advantage  than 
she  had  since  her  arrival  at  the  mansion.    She  felt 
that  she  should  make  a  great  sacrifice  in  leaving 
one  whom  she  so  ardently  loved ;  but  the  thouglu 
gave  firmness  to  her  step  and  expression  to  her 
countenance.     An  opportunity  soon  offered  to  put 
her  design  in  execution.    Fitzgerald  concluded  to 
accompany  his  friends  to  the  city,  and  stay  a  few 
weeks  to  settle  some  business.     He  knew  that  his 
wife  and  Caroline  were  invited  to  make  a  visit  at  a 
country  seat  some  miles  distant,  and  told  her,  when 
he  took  leave,  to  ride,  visit,  walk,  and  amuse  herself 
m   her  own  way— he  should  not  be  gone  long. 
Their  visiters  had  all  departed.     Caroline  said  she 
should  go  the  next  day  to  IMrs.  Bensel's,  as  the 
house  was  too  lonely  with  no  one  but  Isidore  for  a 
companion.    "Now,"'  thought  Isidore, ''  is  the  time." 
The  first  day  after  Caroline's  departure  was  spent 
9* 


102  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

b}^  this  disinterested  and  amiable  woman  in  plan- 
ning and  aiianging  her  dangerous  undertaking ; 
the  next  in  packing  her  clothes  and  writing  to  her 
husband.  She  told  the  old  steward  that  she  wished 
him  to  speak  a  passage  for  her  in  the  stage  on  the 
morrowj  as  she  intended  to  visit  her  husband. 

"  Going  alone,  madam,"  he  asked  ;  "  did  not  mas- 
ter wish  me  to  take  you  doAvn  in  the  carriage  ?"' 

"  No,  David  ;  you  are  to  stay  here.  I  shall  leave 
the  key  of  your  master's  room  with  you  ;  so  you  can 
send  us  what  we  wish  for  in  the  city." 

The  old  man  lx)wed  and  retired.  She  wandered 
round  the  rooms — wept  long  before  her  husband's 
picture :  but  retired  early,  as  the  stage  was  to  call 
for  her  at  seven.  The  next  day  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  city,  toward  which  she  traveled  until 
night.  After  which  it  was  impossible  to  get  the 
least  trace  of  her. 

Fitzgerald  returned  in  a  few  weeks  ;  and,  when 
he  approached  his  house,  was  surprised  at  not  see- 
ing his  lovely  Avife  even  at  the  window.  Carohne 
was  leaning  over  the  balcony,  as  if  looking  for 
some  one.     He  asked  for  his  wife. 

"  Your  wife?  Why  she  went  to  you  three  weeks 
ago !" 

Fitzgerald  turned  pale,  and,  sinking  on  the  steps, 
seemed  lost  in  an  agony  of  thought.  He  summon- 
ed all  the  domestics,  but  could  learn  nothing,  only 
that  she  had  left  home  to  join  him.  He  went  to 
her  room,  examined  every  thing,  but  could  find  no 
clue  to  guide  him. 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  IQS 

"  She  cannot  have  left  me,"  said  he.  "  Oh,  Isi- 
dore !  who  has  torn  you  from  my  arms  ?" 

At  length,  on  opening  his  own  desk,  he  discover- 
ed a  letter  addressed  to  him  in  the  hand-writing  of 
his  wife  ;  and  what  was  his  astonishment  at  learn- 
ing that  she  had  left  him,  and — for  ever  ! 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

Her  letter  was  short,  but  tender  and  impressive. 
It  concluded  by  saying,  "  It  will  be  useless  to  seek 
me,  for  I  leave  no  trace  behind  ;  if  you  hear  nothing 
from  me  in  five  years,  think  me  with  your  blessed 
mother,  and  obtain  a  wife  of  whom  she  would  not 
be  ashamed.  If  I  can  make  myself  worthy  of  you, 
I  will  return." 

Fitzgerald  was  in  an  agony  of  grief;  he  remem- 
bered nothing  but  her  artless  lovehness  ;  felt  a  thou- 
sand fears  for  her  safety ;  scoured  the  country  in 
every  direction  ;  spent  months  in  seeking,  but  with- 
out even  getting  a  hint  to  guide  his  search  beyond 
the  night  on  which  she  left  the  stage.  He  went  up 
to  the  log  cabin,  but  the  Indians  had  heard  nothing 
of  her  since  she  sent  them  presents  of  blankets, 
beads  for  their  moccasins,  (fee. 

A  year  passed  away,  and  Fitzgerald  began  to 
think  he  should  never  see  her  more.  He  left  his 
beautiful  residence,  ^vhere  he  could  not  remain,  for 


104  THE  UxNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

every  thing  reminded  him  of  his  lost  wife  and  de- 
parted mother,  and  removed  to  the  city. 

Year  after  year  rolled  on,  and  the  lovely  Isidore 
was  forgotten.  Even  Fitzgerald  thought  of  her 
only  at  times,  and  as  a  bright  vision  that  had  long 
since  passed  away ;  for  he  had  ceased  even  to  hope 
that  he  should  ever  behold  her  again. 

And  where  was  the  heroic  girl  who  had  made 
such  sacrifices  for  him  she  loved !  It  would  be  be- 
yond the  limits  of  this  narrative  to  relate  all  the  pe- 
rils she  encountered  ;  the  toils,  the  dangers,  and  the 
difficulties  she  overcame  before  she  reached  her 
aunt  Waldorff  in  Germany,  where  she  at  last  ar- 
rived in  safety,  and  was  kindly  received  ;  for  Madam 
Waldorff,  though  she  had  her  prejudices,  and  dis- 
liked the  Americans,  (rebels,  as  she  always  called 
them,)  was  an  elegant  and  accomplished  woman. 
She  entered  warmly  into  the  plans  of  her  lovely 
niece,  procured  for  her  every  instructor  necessary  to 
improve,  cultivate,  and  strengthen  her  really  power- 
ful mind  ;  and  Isidore  was  astonished  at  her  own 
progress.  It  was  indeed  rapid,  for  what  will  not 
love  accomplish?  The  first  years  were  entirely  de- 
voted to  her  mind  and  heart,  the  last  to  accomplish- 
ments. Music  was  her  favorite  among  these  ;  and 
she  performed  delightfully  on  the  harp. 

She  said  to  her  aunt  one  day,  after  playing  for 
her  some  time, 

''  I  have  succeeded  on  this  instrument  beyond  my 
most  sanguine  expectations." 

"  My  dear  Isidore,"  said  Madam  Waldorflf",  "  I  am 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  J^QS 

pleased  and  proud  of  your  progress;  but  I  shall 
grieve  to  part  with  you.  I  have  often,  since  your 
arrival,  lamented  that  I  did  not  take  you  from  your 
grandfather;  but  I  felt  vexed  that  your  father  should 
have  been  urged  from  his  home,  and  thought  the 
general  deserved  all  the  anxiety  he  felt.  I  have 
long  since  overcome  such  feelings,  and  now,  my 
dear  child,  you  are  wound  round  my  heart  so  firm- 
ly, that  it  will  ache  to  part  with  you.  I  have  seen 
for  some  time  that  your  thoughts  are  wandering  to 
that  dear  one  for  whom  all  your  exertions  have  been 
made.  You  are  anxious  to  see  your  husband  in 
your  assumed  character,  and,  though  I  dislike  all 
deceit,  I  think  if  it  ever  was  excusable,  it  is  in  your 
situation.  I  have  a  friend  in  Avhom  I  can  confide, 
on  the  eve  of  embarking  for  America.  You  shall 
go  with  him  as  a  relation,  which  you  really  are, 
though  distant.  He  knows  your  story,  and  will  aid 
you  in  every  way.  You  shall  see  your  husband. 
He  cannot  know  you,  for  you  are  no  more  like  the 
little  trembler  that  came  here  five  years  ago,  than  I 
am." 

'^  How  good  you  are,  my  more  than  mother.  Do 
you  think  my  husband  will  not  know  me?"  said 
Isidore,  as  she  walked  up  to  a  large  mirror.  "  I  am 
very  tall  now,  and  have,  I  believe,  rather  a  more 
dignified  and  womanly  appearance.  But  he  will 
know  me  by  my  hair,  which  is  of  a  peculiar  color." 

"  I  think  not ;  beside,  my  dear,  you  can  easily 
conceal  it  with  a  head-dress." 

"  Ah,  true ;  but  I  shall  betray  myself,  dearest  aunt, 
by  my  emotions." 


106  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

"  Isidore,  have  you  overcome  so  many  difficulties, 
shown  yourself  so  superior  to  most  of  your  sex.  and 
have  not  yet  learned  to  control  and  conceal  )^our 
own  feelings  ?  Be  j^ourself,  my  child,  and  all  will 
be  well." 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Campbell,  when  he  now  sees 
me,  will  recognise  the  hahy^  the  foolP  Isidore  blush- 
ed as  she  said  this,  for  she  did  not  exactly  like  the 
resentment  that  rose  in  her  bosom.  "  Alas,  my  dear 
aunt.  I  have  so  many  faults  and  foibles  yet  to  cor- 
rect !  for  I  would  not  return  with  any  feelings  but 
those  of  affection  and  tenderness  towards  my  friends. 
My  only  w^onder  is,  that  my  husband  ever  could 
have  loved  me.  But  now,  I  am  sure  that  I  am 
worthy  of  his  love ;  sure  that  I  can  make  him  hap- 
py ;  sure  that  I  possess,  in  the  resources  of  my  own 
mind,  treasures  that,  but  for  your  kind  attention  to 
me,  when  I  came  a  little  ignorant  child  to  your  bo- 
som, would  have  been  lost  for  ever." 

Isidore  left  her  kind  aunt  soon  after  this  conver- 
sation, with  the  friend  she  mentioned,  and  was  on 
her  return  to  America. 


"  Can  you  tell  me,  Emma,"  said  Major  Harcourt 
to  his  wife,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  her  on  a  sofa, 
'•  who  that  elegant-looking  female  is,  leaning  on  an 
elderly  gentleman's  arm,  by  the  door  ?" 

"  Yes ;  it  is  the  beautiful  stranger  I  told  you  of; 
a  relation  of  Mr.  Wieland's,  the  great  Holland  mer- 
chant ;    and   some    say,   heiress   to   his  immense 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  IQJ 

wealth.     She  is  very  much  admhed.     Is  she  not 
lovely?" 

"  Beautiful  indeed,  and  extremely  graceful.  I 
have  been  watching  her  for  some  time." 

"  Come,  I  will  introduce  you  to  her,  Henry ;  she 
is  as  intelligent  and  accomplished  as  she  is  beauti- 
ful. But  you  seem  amazingly  struck.  See,  your 
earnest  gaze  has  quite  disconcerted  her ;  that  fair 
face  is  covered  with  blushes,  and  she  has  turned  to 
her  protector,  with  w^iom  she  is  conversing  very 
earnestly." 

Harcourt  felt  a  singular  interest  in  this  beautiful 
stranger,  and  said, 

"  Let  us  follow  her,  Emma.  I  never  saw  but  one 
being  that  interested  me  half  so  much  ;"  looking  ex- 
pressively at  his  wife,  and  pressing  her  arm  as  he 
spoke.  They  w^ere  soon  by  the  side  of  the  person 
who  had  attracted  their  observation,  where  they 
spent  an  hour  deliglnfully.  Emma  promised  to 
call  for  Miss  Walstein  next  day,  to  walk  on  the 
Battery  ;  and  Major  Harcourt,  as  they  rode  home, 
declared  he  had  never  conversed  with  a  more  intelli- 
gent and  agreeable  woman. 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  Emma,  "  if  I  were  at  all 
inclined  to  be  jealous,  I  think  I  have  some  little 
cause  for  it  now,  for  you  have  appeared  perfectly 
fascinated  with  Miss  "Walstein,  and  have  scarcely 
taken  your  eyes  from  her  face." 

'•  Indeed,  Emma,  she  reminds  me  so  much  of  some 
one  I  have  seen,  though  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot 
tell  who,  that  I  thought  we  must  have  met  before  ; 


log  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

but  it  cannot  be,  as  she  told  me  it  was  her  first  visit 
to  this  city.  I  will  go  with  you  to-morrow,  and  take 
Campbell ;  he  will  lose  his  heart,  you  may  be  sure, 
as  she  is  exactly  the  woman  I  have  heard  him  often 
describe  and  wish  to  obtain."  Emma  smiled.  "  Why 
that  smile  ?  Do  you  not  agree  with  me  ?" 

"  I  think,  my  dear  husband,  your  sudden  and 
warm  admiration  is  not  consistent  with  your  usual 
prudence  and  judgment." 

;,  "  True,  true ;  and  I  will  say  no  more.  Albert 
would  have  a  fair  right  to  laugh  at  me,  should  he 
know  of  my  sudden  and  warm  admiration  of  a 
beautiful  woman." 

The  conversation  then  dropped.  Emma  told  her 
husband  that  Campbell  had  called  to  say  adieu ;  he 
was  to  sail  for  France  in  the  morning. 

Major  Harcourt  had  made  a  most  judicious  choice 
when  he  selected  from  the  beautiful  and  accomplish- 
ed women  that  he  visited,  Emma  Green.  She  was 
rather  plain  in  her  person,  though  graceful  and 
elegant  in  her  manners.  He  was  sure  of  an  agree- 
able companion,  for  her  mind  was  well  cultivated, 
and  her  disposition  amiable. 

Often  would  Fitzgerald,  who  was  very  intimate 
there,  when  he  witnessed  their  perfect  union  and 
happiness,  sigh  and  say, 

•'  Ah,  Harcourt,  why  was  I  so  weak  as  to  be  fas- 
cinated by  beauty  alone  ?  The  voice  of  the  good 
old  general  still  sounds  in  my  ears :  '  son  of  my 
fiiend,  do  nothing  rashly.'  Why  did  I  not  listen  to 
his  advice  ?" 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  -[QO 

"My  dear  Albeit,  you  have  learned  a  useful 
lesson,  and  I  hope  your  next  choice  will  do  you 
honor." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  again,"  replied  Fitzgerald. 

In  a  few  weeks  Sophia  Walstein  and  Mr.  Weiland 
were  familiar  guests  at  Major  Harcourt's. 

"I  think,"  said  Emma  to  her  husband,  '-that 
Fitzgerald  rather  avoids  us  of  late.  I  met  him  this 
morning  as  we  were  walking  in  Broadway,  and  in- 
troduced Sophia  to  him  ;  but  he  had  little  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  her,  as  her  veil  was  down,  and  none 
of  conversing  with  her,  as  she  was  seized  with  one 
of  those  fits  of  trembling  that  alarmed  me  so  much 
the  day  you  returned  with  him  from  the  country. 
I  hope  she  is  not  nervous.  Albert  ordered  his  car- 
riage, and  the  ride  soon  restored  h'.n:  I  wish  he 
would  become  acquainted  with  her.  She  is  exactly 
calculated  to  make  him  happy,  and  it  is  quite  idle 
to  suppose  he  will  ever  hear  from  Isidore.'^ 

"  I  think  as  you  do,  Emma  ;  but  still  his  situa- 
tion is  an  embarrassing  one,  as  it  w'ould  be  dreadful 
indeed  to  marry  one  w^oman,  and  be  claimed  by 
another." 

"  True,  true,  Henry ;  but  it  is  now  almost  six 
years  since  she  left  him  ;  and  could  he  obtain  this 
lovely  creature,  he  would  be  fortunate  indeed.  I 
never  saw  any  one  so  much  admired,  and  so  w^or- 
thy  of  admiration,  that  valued  it  so  little.  She  pre- 
fers a  social  evening  with  me  to  the  most  splendid 
party,  and  a  game  at  romps  with  your  pet,  Albert, 
to  a  walk  with  our  most  fascinating  beaux.     To- 

VOL.  I.  10 


110  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

morrow  she  spends  the  clay  with  us,  and  I  am  to 
send  for  her  harp.  Bring  Fitzgerald  home  with 
you,  and  say  nothing  of  our  guest." 

"  I  will,"  replied  Harcourt. 

After  a  day  of  social  and  refined  enjoyment  with 
her  new  friends,  at  evening  Miss  Walstein  took  her 
harp.  She  was  playing  a  Scotch  air  when  Harcourt 
came  home  with  Fitzgerald.  They  stood  sometime 
at  the  open  door,  charmed  with  the  melody.  The 
latter  seemed  spell-bound.  Was  it  the  music  that  en- 
tranced him,  or  was  he  admiring  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture that  touched  the  strings  with  her  white  hands 
and  delicate  fingers  ?  His  eager  and  admiring  gaze 
dehghted  Emma,  and  she  spoke  to  him  :  the  music 
ceased,  and  the  fair  musician  hung  over  the  instru- 
ment, pale  and  trembling.  Her  agitation  was  attri- 
buted to  fatigue  from  playing  so  long  ;  but  she  soon 
recovered  herself.  Fitzgerald  was  constantly  exa- 
mining her  face,  when  he  could  do  so  without  rude- 
ness ;  though  after  an  hour  spent  in  her  society,  he 
listened  more  than  he  looked,  for  he  thought  her 
uncommonly  agreeable — still  he  appeared  thought- 
ful, and  at  every  pause  in  the  conversation,  quite 
dull. 

Days  and  weeks  passed,  and  Fitzgerald  visited 
Sophia  Walstein  every  day. 

"  Harcourt,"  said  he,  "  you  have  drawn  me  into 
the  society  of  this  charming  woman,  whom  it  is  im- 
possible to  know  and  not  to  love ;  and  yet,  whom  it 
would  be  dishonorable  for  me  to  seek  to  obtain. 
W^hy  do  you  smile  ?  Do  not  trifle  with  me,  Henry  ; 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE.  m 

you  know  not  the  struggle  between  my  attachment 
and  my  sense  of  honor.  I  sometimes  wish  I  had 
never  seen  her." 

"  I  would  not  trifle  with  you,  Albert ;  but  you 
must  have  discovered  Sophias  preference  for  you. 
Why  not  declare  yourself?"' 

"  Are  3'ou  mad,  Harcourt  ?  Am  I  not  a  married 
man  ?  The  lost  Isidore  is  forgotten  by  the  world  : 
her  beauty  and  her  virtues  buried  in  oblivion  ;  but 
/  cannot  forget  the  tenderness  with  which  I  once 
almost  adored  her.  Yet  I  love  Sophia  devotedly, 
ardently.  There  is  something  about  her,  though  I 
have  never  mentioned  it  before,  that  often  reminds 
me  of  Isidore.  The  expression  of  her  eyes  some- 
times, when  she  gazes  on  me  ;  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
particularly  when  it  is  a  tone  of  tenderness,  brings 
the  artless  self-sacrificing  creature  before  me,  so  for- 
cibly that  her  name  is  involuntarily  on  my  lips.  It 
w^as  this  resemblance  that  first  drew  me  to  her ;  but 
it  is  her  noble,  cultivated,  and  accomplished  mind, 
and  lovely,  amiable  temper,  that  irresistibly  attach 
me  to  Sophia  Walstein.  It  has  become  almost  im- 
possible for  me  to  conceal  my  feelings  towards  her, 
and  this  night  I  will  tell  her  my  historj^  It  may 
be  unavailing,  and  perhaps  selfish  ;  but  I  cannot 
resist  the  impulse  that  prompts  me.  If  she  despises 
and  avoids  me,  I  can  but  relinquish  her  society, 
which  is  already  become  so  dangerous  to  my  peace 
of  mind,  and  quit  a  country  in  which  I  seem  doomed 
to  meet  with  nothing  but  sorrow  and  mortification." 

Fitzgerald  walked  the  apartment  in  an  agony  of 


112  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

doubt  and  anxiety.  Harcourt  endeavored  to  soothe 
him.  by  telling  him  to  fear  nothing,  and  striving  to 
convince  him  that  he  miglit  indulge  his  attachment 
and  seek  its  return  with  honor ;  but  he  continued 
pacing  the  room  until  the  servant  announced  Miss 
AVal^teiUj  when  he  took  his  hat  and  rushed  into  the 
street. 

He  returned  more  composed,  and,  seating  himself 
beside  the  object  of  all  this  sohcitude,  attempted  in 
vain  to  converse  with  his  accustomed  freedom.  So- 
phia was  talking  of  the  importance  of  education  to 
females. 

"  Will  you  hear  my  story,  Miss  Walstein  ?"  at 
length  he  somewhat  abruptly  said.  "  It  is  a  melan- 
choly illustration  of  what  you  have  just  been  say- 
ing ;  but  I  think  I  can  tell  it  to  you^  though  I  scarce- 
I3"  know  w^hy  I  ask  you  to  listen  to  it."' 

She  turned  very  pale,  and  trembled  excessively 
when  he  spoke  of  his  wife ;  her  artless  loveliness, 
his  regret  and  sorrow  for  her  loss,  and  his  long 
search  for  her.  She  looked  on  him  with  a  tender- 
ness that  assured  him  he  was  beloved.  Still  he 
became  embarrassed  as  he  began  to  speak  of  him- 
self. 

"  This,"  said  he,  taking  Isidore's  last  letter  from 
his  pocketj  "  will  explain  what — my — " 

Sophia  started  from  her  chair,  threw  off  the  head- 
dress that  confined  and  covered  her  luxuriant  tresses, 
and  letting  the  rich  glossy  ringlets  fall  over  her  neck 
and  shoulders,  cried, 

''  Well,  well  do  I  know  the  contents  of  that  letter; 


THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 


113 


Albert,  my  dear,  beloved  husband  !"  and  sank  almost 
lifeless  into  his  arms ! 

He  gazed  on  her  as  if  he  doubted  the  evidence  of 
his  senses,  then  pressing  her  to  his  heart,  exclaimed, 
"  Isidore  !  My  wife  !"  with  such  a  frantic  cry  of 
joy,  that  Harcourt  and  Emma  rushed  into  the  apart- 
ment. 

To  describe  the  surprise  and  happiness  of  all  in- 
terested, would  be  impossible. 

"  Dear  Isidore,"  said  Fitzgerald,  when  they  were 
all  quietly  settled,  "  how  could  a  young,  timid,  and 
ignorant  girl — pardon  me  for  the  word — leave  her 
home,  her  husband,  and  thus  travel  alone  to  Ger- 
many, without  leaving  any  trace  behind?  It  was 
the  last  place  in  the  world  I  should  have  sought  for 
you,  as  I  knew  you  had  a  perfect  dread  of  IMadame 
Waldorff,  on  account  of  her  treatment  of  your  grand- 
father." 

"  True,  Albert ;  but  he  told  me  in  his  last  mo- 
ments, if  I  never  saw  you  again,  to  go  to  her,  and 
said  she  was  noble  and  well  educated,  though  proud. 
I  knew  she  was  rich,  and  had  ample  means  to  do 
for  me  all  I  wished.  Had  you  examined  your  old 
wardrobe,  you  would  have  missed  two  suits  of  boys' 
clothes,  that  your  mother  had  preserved,  because, 
as  you  told  me,  your  life  had  been  saved  in  one, 
and  the  other  you  wore  on  your  return  from  your 
first  absence.  These  I  wore  after  the  first  day, 
cutting  off  my  hair,  and  staining  my  skin.  You 
could  not  have  known  me  yourself  You  ask 
how  I  could  leave  you  ?  To  make  the  effort,  it 
10* 


1 14  THE  UNEDUCATED  WIFE. 

needed  all  the  consciousness  I  felt  of  my  iinworthi- 
ness  for  the  station  in  which  you  had  placed  me ; 
needed  all  the  misery  that  I  constantly  suffered,  and 
the  mortification  I  caused  you.  Oh,  Albert !  before 
I  could  summon  resolution  to  leave  you,  I  heard 
myself  called  a  fool !  yes,  a  fool,  and  by  your  best 
friends.  I  do  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  how  can  any 
one  perfectly  uneducated,  and  ignorant  even  of  the 
most  common  things,  appear  other  than  a  fool,  in 
the  most  intelligent  and  polished  society  ?  Riches 
may  dazzle,  and  beauty  may  fascinate,  but  a  highly 
intelligent  and  cultivated  man  cannot  long  love  an 
ignorant  woman  ;  and  you  will  acknowledge  that  it 
is  a  dangerous  experiment  for  any  such  man  to 
take  an  uneducated  girl,  however  beautiful,  for  a 
wife." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  love,  I  will."  said  Fitzgerald  ;  "  un- 
less every  woman  were  an  Isidore." 


BALLAD. 


BY  MRS.   EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


'  La  rose  cueillie  et  le  coeur  gagne  ne  plaisent  qu' un  jour." 


The  maiden  sate  at  her  busy  wheel, 

Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 

Her  bosom's  harmless  glee. 
Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  love, 

And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  looked  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 

And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright, 
And  I  sighed  to  think  that  the  traitor  love. 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light : 
But  she  thought  not  of  future  days  of  wo. 

While  she  carroled  in  tones  so  gay ; 
"  The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"  Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  passed  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage-door ; 
The  maiden  sate  at  her  busy  wheel. 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more  : 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  downcast  eye. 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 


]^]^5  BALLAD. 

Oh  !  well  I  knew  what  had  dimmed  her  eye, 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale ; 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song, 

WTiile  she  listened  to  love's  soft  tale. 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poisoned  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away : 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gathered  rose. 

Had  charmed  but  for  a  dav. 


THE  LITTLE,  HARD-FACED  OLD  GENTLEMAN. 


From  the  Diary  of  an  Editor. 


BY  THEODORE  S.   FAY. 


I  WAS  passing  from  my  office  one  day,  to  indulge 
jnyself  with  a  walk,  when  a  little,  hard-faced  old 
man,  with  a  hlack  coat,  hroad-brinnned  hat,  velvet 
breeches,  shoes  and  buckles,  and  gold-headed  cane, 
stopped  me,  standing  directly  in  my  path.  I  look- 
ed at  him.  He  looked  at  me.  I  crossed  my  hands 
before  me  patiently,  forced  my  features  into  a  civil 
smile,  and  waited  the  development  of  his  intentions; 
not  being  distinctly  certain,  from  his  firm,  deter- 
mined expression,  whether  he  was  "  a  spirit  of  health 
or  goblin  damned,"  and  whether  his  intents  Avere 
"  wicked  or  charitable*' — that  is,  whether  he  came  to 
discontinue  or  subscribe,  to  pay  a  bill  or  present  one, 
to  offer  a  communication  or  a  pistol,  to  shake  me  by 
the  hand  or  pull  me  by  the  nose.  Editors  now-a- 
days  must  always  be  on  their  guard.  For  my  part, 
I  am  peaceable,  and  much  attached  to  life,  and 
should  esteem  it  exceedingly  disagreeable  to  be 
either  shot  or  horsewhipped.  I  am  not  built  for 
action,  but  love  to  sail  in  quiet  waters ;  cordially 
eschewing  gales,  waves,  water-spouts,  sea-serpents, 
earthquakes,  tornadoes,  and  all  such  matters,  both 


118  THE  LITTLE,  HARD-FACED 

on  sea  and  land.  My  antipathy  to  a  horsewhip  is 
an  inheritance  from  boyhood.  It  carried  me  across 
Caesar's  bridge,  and  through  Yirgil  and  Horace.  I 
am  mdebted  to  it  for  a  tolerable  understanding  of 
grammar,  arithmetic,  geography,  and  other  occult 
sciences.  It  enlightened  me  not  a  little  upon  many 
algebraic  processes,  which,  to  speak  truth,  presented, 
otherwise,  but  slender  claims  to  my  consideration. 
It  disciplined  me  into  a  uniform  propriety  of  man- 
ners, and  instilled  into  my  bosom  early  rudiments 
of  wisdom,  and  principles  of  virtue.  In  my  ma- 
turer  years,  the  contingencies  of  Ufe  have  thrust  me, 
rather  abruptly,  if  not  reluctantly,  into  the  editorial 
fraternity,  (heaven  bless  them,  I  mean  them  no  dis- 
respect,) and  in  the  same  candor  which  distinguish- 
es my  former  acknowledgments,  I  confess  that  vi- 
sions of  this  instrument  have  occasionally  obtruded 
themselves,  somewhat  forcibly  upon  my  fancy,  in  the 
paroxysms  of  an  article,  dampening  the  glow  of 
composition,  and  causing  certain  qualifying  interli- 
neations and  prudent  erasures,  prompted  by  the 
representations  of  memory  or  the  whispers  of  pru- 
dence. The  reader  must  not  fancy,  from  the  form 
of  my  expression,  that  I  have  ever  been  horsewhip- 
ped. I  have  hitherto  escaped,  (for  which  heaven 
be  praised  !)  although  my  horizon  has  been  darken- 
ed by  many  a  cloudy  threat  and  thundering  denun- 
ciation. 

Nose-puUing  is  another  disagreeable  branch  of 
the  editorial  business.  To  have  any  part  of  one 
pulled  is  annoying ;  but  there  is  a  dignity  about  the 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  ng 

nose  impatient  even  of  observation  or  remark;  while 
the  act  of  taking  hold  of  it  witli  the  thumb  and 
finger,  is  worse  than  minder,  and  can  only  be  wash- 
ed out  with  blood.  Kicking,  cuffing,  being  turned 
out  of  doors,  being  abused  in  the  papers,  (fcc,  are 
bad,  but  these  are  mere  minor  considerations.  In- 
deed many  of  my  brother  editors  rather  pique 
themselves  upon  some  of  them,  as  a  soldier  does 
on  the  scars  obtained  in  fighting  the  battles  of  his 
country.  They  fancy  that,  thereby,  they  are  invest- 
ed with  claims  upon  their  party,  and  suffer  indefi- 
nite dreams  of  political  eminence  to  be  awakened 
in  their  bosoms.  I  have  seen  a  fellow  draw  his  hat 
fiercely  down  over  his  brow,  and  strut  about,  with 
insufferable  importance,  on  the  strength  of  having 
been  thoroughly  kicked  by  the  enemy. 

This  is  a  long  digression,  but  it  passed  rapidly 
through  my  mind,  as  the  little,  hard-faced  old  gen- 
tleman stood  before  me,  looking  at  me  w4th  a  pierc- 
ing glance  and  a  resolute  air.  At  length,  unlike  a 
ghost,  he  spoke  first: 

"You  are  the  editor?" — &c. 

A  slight  motion  of  acquiescence  with  my  head, 
and  an  affirmative  wave  of  my  hand,  a  little  leaning 
toward  the  majestic,  announced  to  my  unknown 
friend  the  accuracy  of  his  conjecture. 

The  little  old  gentleman's  face  relaxed — he  took 
off  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and  kid  it  down  with  his 
cane  carefully  on  the  table,  then  seized  my  hand 
and  shook  it  heartily.  People  are  so  polite  and  friend- 
ly when  about  to  ask  a  favour. 


120  THE  LITTLE,  HARD-FACED 

"  My  dear  sir,'*  said  he,  "  this  is  a  pleasure  I  have 
long  sought  vainly.  You  must  know,  sir,  I  am  the 
editor  of  a  theatrical  weekly — a  neat  thing  in  its 
way — here's  the  last  number."  He  fumbled  about 
in  his  pocket,  and  produced  a  red-covered  pamphlet. 

"I  have  been  some  time  publishing  it,  and,  though 
it  is  admitted  by  all  acquainted  with  its  merits,  to 
be  clearly  the  best  thing  of  the  kind  ever  started 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  yet  people  do  not  seem  to 
take  much  notice  of  it.  Indeed,  my  friends  tell  me, 
that  the  public  are  not  fully  aware  of  its  existence. 
Pray  let  me  be  indebted  to  you  for  a  notice.  I  wish 
to  get  fairly  afloat.  You  see,  I  have  been  too  difh- 
dent  about  it.  We  modest  fellows  allow  our  inferiors 
to  pass  us  often.  I  will  leave  this  number  with  you. 
Pray,  pray  give  it  a  good  notice." 

He  placed  in  my  hands  the  eleventh  number  of 
the  "North  American  Thespian  Magazine,"'  de- 
voted to  the  drama,  and  also  to  literature,  science, 
history,  and  the  arts.  On  reading  over  the  prospec- 
tus, I  found  it  vastly  comprehensive,  embracing  pret- 
ty much  every  subject  in  the  world.  If  so  extensive 
a  plan  were  decently  filled  up  in  the  details,  the 
''North  American  Thespian  Magazine"  was  certain- 
ly worth  the  annual  subscription  money,  which  was 
only  one  dollar.  I  said  so  under  my  "literary  notices," 
in  the  next  impression  of  my  journal;  and,  although 
I  had  not  actually  read  the  work,  yet  it  sparkled  so 
with  asterisks,  dashes,  and  notes  of  admiration, 
that  it  looked  interesting.  I  added  in  my  critique, 
that  it  was  elegantly  got  up,  that  its  typographical 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  121 

execution  reflected  credit  on  the  publishers,  that  its 
failure  would  be  a  grievous  reproach  to  the  city,  that 
its  editor  was  a  scholar,  a  writer,  and  a  gentleman, 
and  was  favorably  known  to  the  hterary  circles  by 
the  eloquence,  wit,  and  feeling  of  his  former  produc- 
tions.  What  those  productions  were,  1  should  have 
been  rather  puzzled  to  say,  never  having  read,  or 
even  heard  of  them.     This,  however,  was  the  cant 
criticism  of  the  day,  which  is  so  exorbitant  and  un- 
meaning, and  so  universally  cast  in  one  moiild,  that 
I  was  in  some  tribulation,  on  reading  over  the  arti- 
cle in  print,  to  find  that  I  had  omitted  the  words 
"native  genius,"  which  possess  a  kind  of  common- 
law-right  to  a  place  in  all  articles  on  American  lite- 
rary productions.     Forth,  however,  it  went  to  the 
world,  and  I  experienced  a  philanthropic  emotion  in 
fancying  how  pleased  the  little  hard-faced  old  gen- 
tleman would  be,  with  these  flattering  encomiums 
on  his  "Thespian  Magazine." 

The  very  day  my  paper  was  out,  as  I  was  sitting 
"full  fathom  five"  deep  in  an  article  on  "the  advan- 
tages of  virtue,"  (an  interesting  theme,  upon  my 
views  of  which  I  rather  flattered  myself,)  I  was  start- 
led by  three  knocks  at  the  door,  and  my  "  come  in" 
exhibited  to  view  the  broad-brinnned  hat  of  the  hard- 
faced  old  gentleman,  with  his  breeches,  buckles, 
gold-headed  cane,  and  all.  He  laid  aside  his  hat  and 
cane  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  walked  a  great 
way,  and  means  to  rest  himself  a  while.  I  was  very 
busy.  It  was  one  of  my  inspired  moments.  Half  of 
a  briUiant  idea  was  already  committed  to  paper. 

VOL.  I.  11 


122  THE  LITTLE  HARD-FACED 

There  it  lay — a  fragment— a  flower  cut  off  in  the 
bud — a  mere  outUne — an  embryo;  and  my  imagi- 
nation coohng  hke  a  piece  of  red-hot  iron  in  the  open 
air.  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
look  of  solemn  silence,  retaining  my  pen  ready  for 
action,  with  my  little  finger  extended,  and  hinting 
in  every  w^ay,  that  I  w^as  "  not  i'  the  vein/'  I  kept  my 
lips  closed.  I  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink-stand  several 
times,  and  held  it  hovering  over  the  sheet.  It  would 
not  do.  The  old  gentleman  was  not  to  be  driven  off 
his  ground  by  shakes  of  the  pen,  ink-drops,  or  little 
fingers.  He  fumbled  about  in  his  pockets,  and  drew 
forth  the  red-covered  "  North  American  Thespian 
Magazine,"  devoted  to  the  drama,  (fee,  number 
twelve.  He  wanted  "  a  good  notice.  The  last  was 
rather  general.  I  had  not  specified  its  peculiar 
claims  upon  the  public.  I  had  copied  nothing. 
That  sort  of  critique  did  no  good.  He  begged  me 
to  read  this  carefully — to  analyze  it — ^to  give  it  a 
candid  examination."  I  was  borne  down  by  his  em- 
phatic manner ;  and  being  naturally  of  a  civil  de- 
portment as  well  as,  at  that  particular  moment,  in  an 
impatient,  feverish  hurry  to  get  on  with  my  treatise 
on  the  "  advantages  of  virtue,"  which  I  felt  now 
oozing  out  of  my  subsiding  brain  with  an  alarming 
rapidity,  I  promised  to  read,  notice,  investigate,  ana- 
lyze to  the  uttermost  extent  of  his  wishes,  or  at  least 
of  my  ability. 

I  could  scarcely  keep  myself  screwed  down  to  com- 
mon courtesy  till  the  moment  of  his  departure ;  a 
proceeding  which  he  accomplished  with  a  most  com- 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  123 

mendable  self-possession  and  deliberate  politeness. 
When  he  was  fairly  gone,  I  poked  my  head  out,  and 
called  my  boy. 

''  Peter." 

"Sir." 

"  Did  you  see  that  little  old  gentleman,  Peter  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Should  you  know  him  again,  Peter ?>" 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  if  he  ever  come  here  again,  Peter,  tell  him 
I  am  not  in." 

"  Yes,  sir.^ 

I  re-entered  my  little  study,  and  closed  the  door 
after  me  with  a  slam,  which  could  only  have  been 
perceptible  to  those  who  knew  my  ordinary  still  and 
mild  manner.  There  might  have  been  also  a  shght 
accent  in  my  way  of  turning  the  key,  and  (candor 
is  a  merit !)  I  could  not  repress  a  brief  exclamation 
of  displeasure  at  the  little  old  gentleman  with  his 
magazine,  w4io  had  broken  in  so  provokingly  upon 
my  "  essay  ^on  virtue."  '  Virtue  or  no  Virtue,'  thought, 
I,   '  I  wish  him  to  the  d .' 

My  room  is  on  the  ground-floor,  and  a  window 
adjoining  the  street  lets  in  upon  me  the  light  and 
air  through  a  heavy  crimson  curtain,  near  which  I 
sit  and  scribble.  I  was  just  enlarging  upon  the  ne- 
cessity of  resignation,  while  the  frown  yet  lingered 
on  my  brow,  and  was  writing  myself  into  a  more 
calm  and  complacent  mood,  when- — another  knock 
at  the  door.  As  I  opened  it,  I  heard  Peter's  voice 
asserting,  sturdily,  that  I  had  "  gone  out."    Never 


1W> 


124  THE  LITTLE  HARD-FACED 

dreaming  of  my  old  enemy,  I  betrayed  too  much  of 
my  person  to  withdraw,  and  I  was  recognized,  and 
pounced  upon  by  the  httle  old  gentleman,  who  had 
come  back  to  inform  me,  that  he  intended,  as  soon 
as  the  increase  of  his  subscription  w^ould  permit,  to 
enlarge  and  improve  the  "  North  American  Thes- 
pian Magazine,"  and  to  employ  all  the  writers  in 
town.  '•  I  intend  also," — said  he,  and  he  was  in  the 
act  of  again  laying  aside  that  everlasting  hat  and 
cane,  when  a  cry  of  fire  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
the  smell  of  the  burning  rafters  attracted  him  into 
the  street,  where,  as  I  feared,  he  escaped  unhurt. 
In  many  respects  fires  are  calamities ;  but  I  never 
saw  a  more  forcible  exemplification  of  Shakspeare's 
remark,  "  there  is  some  spirit  of  good  in  things  evil," 
than  in  the  relief  afforded  me  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. I  wrote,  after  that,  with  my  door  locked.  This 
I  knew  was,  from  the  confined  air,  prejudicial  to  my 
health  ;  but  what  wms  dyspepsy  or  consumption 
to  that  little  hard-faced  old  gentleman — to  those 
breeches — to  that  broad-brimmed  hat^ — to  those 
buckles — to  that  gold-headed  cane  ! 

"Remember,  Peter,"  said  I,  the  second  morning 
after  the  foregoing,  "  I  have  gone  out." 

"Where  have  you  gone?"  inquired  Peter,  with 
grave  simplicity.  "  They  always  ask  me  where 
you  have  gone,  sir.  The  little  man  with  the  hat, 
w'as  here  last  night,  and  wanted  to  go  after  you." 

"  Forbid  it  heaven  !  I  have  gone  to  Albany,  Peter, 
oh  business." 

I  can  hear  in  my  room  pretty  much  what  passes 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  125 

in  the  adjoining  one,  where  visiters  first  enter  from 
the  street.  I  had  scarcel}^  got  comfortably  seated, 
in  a  rare  mood  for  poetry,  giving  the  last  touches  to 
a  poem,  which,  whatever  might  be  the  merits  of 
Byron  and  Moore,  I  did  not  think  altogether  indif- 
ferent, when  I  heard  the  little  old  gentleman's  voice 
inquiring  for  me. 

"  I  must  see  him  ;  I  have  important  business,"  it 
said. 

"  He  has  gone  out,"  replied  Peter,  in  an  under 
tone,  in  which  I  could  detect  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  uttering  a  bouncer. 

"  But  I  must  see  him,"  said  the  voice. 

^*  The  scoundrel !"  muttered  I. 

'•He  is  not  in  town,  sir,"  said  Peter. 

"  I  will  not  detain  him  a  single  minute.  It  is  of 
the  greatest  importance.  He  would  be  very  sorry, 
very^  should  he  miss  me." 

I  held  my  breath— there  was  a  pause — I  gave 
myself  up  for  lost — when  Peter  rephed  firmly, 

'•He  is  in  Albany,  sir.  Went  off  at  five  o'clock 
this  morning." 

"  Be  back  soon  V 

"  Don't  know." 

"  Where  does  he  stay?" 

•'  Don't  know." 

"  I'll  call  to-morrow." 

I  heard  his  retreating  footsteps,  and  inwardly  re- 
solved to  give  Peter  a  half-dollar,  although  he  de- 
served to  be  horsewhipped  for  his  readiness  at  de- 
ception.    I  laughed  aloud  triumphantly,  and  sla]> 
11* 


126  THE  LITTLE  HARD-FACED 

ped  my  hand  down  upon  my  knee  with  the  feelings 
of  a  fugitive  debtor,  who.  hotly  pursued  by  a  sheriff's 
officer,  escapes  over  the  line  into  another  county  and 
snaps  his  fingers  at  Monsieur  Bailiff.  I  was  aroused 
from  my  merry  mood  of  reverie  by  a  touch  on  my 
shoulder.  I  turned  suddenly.  It  w^as  the  hard- 
faced  little  old  gentleman,  peeping  in  from  the 
street.  His  broad-brimmed  hat  and  two-thirds  of 
his  face  were  just  lifted  above  the  window-sill. 
He  was  evidently  standing  on  tiptoe  ;  and  the  win- 
dow being  open,  he  had  put  aside  the  curtain, 
and  was  soliciting  my  attention  with  the  end  of  his 
cane. 

"Ah  1"  said  he,  "is  it  you?  Well,  I  thoiight  it 
was  you.  Though  I  wasn't  sure.  I  won't  inter- 
rupt you.  Here  are  the  proofs  of  number  thirteen  ; 
you'll  find  something  glorious  in  that — ^just  the  thing 
for  you — don't  forget  me  next  w^eek — good  by.  I'll 
see  you  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

I  shall  not  cast  a  gloom  over  my  readers  by  dwell- 
ing upon  my  feelings.  Surely,  surely,  there  are 
sympathetic  bosoms  among  them.  To  them  I  ap- 
peal. I  said  nothing.  Few  could  have  detected 
any  thing  violent  or  extraordinary  in  my  manner, 
as  I  took  the  proofs  from  the  end  of  the  little  old 
gentleman's  cane,  and  laid  them  calmly  on  the 
table.  I  did  not  write  any  more  about  "  virtue"  that 
morning.  It  was  out  of  the  question.  Indeed  my 
mind  scarcely  recovered  from  the  shock  for  several 
days. 

When  my  nerves  are  in  any  way  irritated,  I  find 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  127 

a  walk  in  the  woods  a  soothing  and  agreeable  seda- 
tive. Accordingly,  the  next  afternoon,  I  wound  up 
the  affairs  of  the  day  earlier  than  usual,  and  set  out 
for  a  ramble  through  the  groves  and  along  the  shore 
of  Hoboken.  I  was  soon  on  one  of  the  abrupt  ac- 
clivities, where,  through  the  deep  rich  foliage  of  the 
intertwining  branches,  I  overlooked  the  Hudson,  the 
w4de  bay,  and  the  superb,  steepled  city,  stretching 
in  a  level  line  of  magnificence  upon  the  shining 
waters,  softened  with  an  overhanging  canopy  of 
thin  haze.  I  gazed  at  the  picture,  and  contemplat- 
ed the  rivalry  of  nature  with  art,  striving  which 
could  most  delight.  As  m)^  eye  moved  from  ship 
to  ship,  from  island  to  island,  and  from  shore  to 
shore — now  reposing  on  the  distant  blue,  then  re- 
velling in  the  nearer  luxuriance  of  the  forest  green, 
I  heard  a  step  in  the  grass,  and  a  httle  ragged  fel- 
low came  up,  and  asked  me  if  I  was  the  editor  of 
the .  I  was  about  replying  to  him  affirma- 
tively, when  his  words  arrested  my  attention.  "  A 
little  gentleman  with  a  hat  and  cane,"  he  said,  "  had 
been  inquiring  for  the  editor,  &c.,  at  the  adjoining 
hotel,  and  had  given  him  sixpence  to  run  up  into 
the  woods  and  find  him."  I  rushed  precipitately, 
as  I  thought,  into  the  thickest  recesses  of  the  wood. 
The  path,  however,  being  very  circuitous,  I  sud- 
denly came  into  it,  and  nearly  ran  against  a  person 
w^iom  it  needed  no  second  glance  to  recognize,  al- 
though his  back  was  luckily  toward  me.  The  hat; 
the  breeches,  the  cane,  were  enough.  If  not,  part 
of  a  red-covered  pamphlet,  sticking  out  of  the  coat- 


128  THE  LITTLE  HARD-FACED 

pocket;  was.  "It  must  be  number  thirteen  !"  I  ex- 
claimed ;  and  as  the  Httle  old  gentleman  was  saun- 
tering north,  I  shaped  my  course  with  all  possible 
celerity  in  a  southerly  direction. 

In  order  to  protect  myself  for  the  future,  I  took 
precautionary  measures  ;  and  in  addition  to  having 
myself  denied,  I  kept  the  window  down,  and  made 
my  egress  and  ingress  through  a  door  round  the 
corner,  as  Peter  told  me  he  had  several  times  seen 
the  little  old  gentleman,  with  a  package  in  his 
hand,  standing  opposite  the  one  through  which  we 
usually  entered,  and  looking  at  the  office  wistfully. 

By  means  of  these  arrangements,  I  succeeded  in 
preserving  my  solitude  inviolate,  when,  to  my  indig- 
nation, I  received  several  letters,  from  different  parts 
of  the  country,  written  by  my  friends,  and  pressing 
upon  me,  at  the  solicitation  of  the  little  old  gentle- 
man, the  propriety  of  giving  the  "  Thespian  Maga- 
zine" a  good  notice.  I  tore  the  letters,  each  one  as 
I  read  them,  into  three  pieces,  and  dropped  them 
under  the  table.  Business  calling  me,  soon  after, 
to  Philadelphia,  I  stepped  on  board  the  steamboat, 
exhilarated  with  the  idea  that  I  was  to  have  at 
least  two  or  three  wrecks  respite.  I  reached  the 
place  of  my  destination  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  It  was  lovely  weather.  The  water 
spread  out  hke  unrippled  glass,  and  the  sky  was 
painted  with  a  thousand  varying  shadows  of  crim- 
son and  gold.  The  boat  touched  the  shore,  and 
while  I  was  watching  the  change  of  a  lovely  cloud, 
I  heard  the  splash  of  a  heavy  body  plunged  into 


OLD  GENTLEMAN.  129 

the  water.     A  sudden  sensation  ran  along  the 
crowd,  which  rushed  from  all  quaiters  towards  the 
spot;  the  ladies  shrieked,  and  turned  away  their 
heads ;  and  I  perceived  that  a  man  had  fallen  from 
the  deck,  and  was  struggUng  in  the  tide,  with  only 
one  hand  held  convulsively  above  the  surface.    Be- 
ing a  practised  swimmer,  I  hesitated  not  a  moment, 
but  flung  off  my  hat  and  coat,  and  sprang  to  his 
rescue.     With  some  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  bear- 
ing him   to  a  boat  and  dragging  him  from  the 
stream.     I  had  no  sooner  done  so,  than  to  my  hor- 
ror  and  astonishment,  I  found  I  had  saved  the 
little  hard-faced  old  gentleman.     His  snuff-colored 
breeches  were  dripping  before  me — his  broad-brim- 
med hat  floated  on  the  current — but  his  cane  (thank 
heaven!)  had  sunk  for  ever.     He  suffered  no  other 
ill  consequences  from  the  catastrophe,  than  some 
injury  to  his  garments  and  the  loss  of  his  cane. 
His  gratitude  for  my  exertions  knew  no  bounds. 
He  assured  me  of  his  conviction  that  the  shght  ac- 
quaintance previously  existing  between  us,  would 
now  be  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  informed  me  of 
his  intention  to  lodge  at  the  same  hotel  with  me. 
He  had  come  to  Philadelphia  to  see  about  a  plate 
for  his  sixteenth  number,  which  was  to  surpass  all 
its  predecessors,  and  of  which  he  would  let  me  have 
an  early  copy,  that  I  might  notice  it  as  it  deserved. 


A  HEALTH. 

BY  MISS  ELIZABETH  C.  CLINCH. 

Fill  high  the  cup  ! — the  young  and  gay 

Are  met  with  bounding  hearts  to-night  ; 
And  sunny  smiles  around  us  play, 

And  eyes  are  sparkling  bright : 
Let  wit  and  song  the  hours  beguile, 

But  yet,  amid  this  festal  cheer, 
Oh,  let  us  pause  to  think  awhile 

Of  him  who  is  not  here  ! 

Fill  high  the  cup  ! — yet  ere  its  brim 

One  young  and  smiling  lip  has  pressed* 
Oh,  pledge  each  sparkling  drop  to  him 

Now  far  o'er  ocean's  breast ! 
The  cordial  wish  each  lip  repeats, 

By  every  heart  is  echoed  here  ; 
For  none  within  this  circle  beats, 

To  which  he  is  not  dear. 

A  sudden  pause  in  festive  glee — 

"What  thought  hath  hushed  the  thought  of  mirth, 
Hath  checked  each  heart's  hilarity. 

And  given  to  sadness  birth  ■? 
O !  read  it  in  the  shades  that  steal 

Across  each  animated  brow  ; 
The  wish  none  utters,  yet  all  feel, 

"  Would  he  were  with  us  now  !" 


A  HEALTH. 

Yet  chase  away  each  vain  regret, 

And  let  each  heart  once  more  be  gay  ; 
Trust  me,  the  meeting  hour  shaJl  yet 

Each  anxious  thought  repay. 
Is  not  his  spirit  with  us  now  1 

Yes  !  wheresoe'er  his  footsteps  roam. 
The  wanderer's  yearning  heart  can  know 

No  resting-place — but  home  ! 

Then  smile  again,  and  let  the  song 

Pour  forth  its  music  sweet  and  clear — 
What  magic  to  those  notes  belong, 

Which  thus  chain  every  ear  ! 
Soft  eyes  are  filled  with  tears — what  spell 

So  suddenly  hath  called  them  there  ? 
That  strain — ah,  yes  !  we  know  it  well ; 

It  is  his  favorite  air. 

With  every  note  how  forcibly 

Return  the  thoughts  of  other  days  ! 
The  shaded  brow,  the  drooping  eye. 

Are  present  to  our  gaze. 
With  all  around  his  looks  are  blent ; 

His  form,  is  it  not  gliding  there  "? 
And  was  it  not  his  voice  which  sent 

That  echo  on  the  air  1 

One  wish,  with  cordial  feeling  fraught, 

Breathe  we  for  him  ere  yet  we  part. 
That  for  each  high  and  generous  thought 

That  animates  his  heart. 
That  Power  which  gives  us  happiness, 

A  blessing  on  his  head  would  pour  ! 
Oh  !  could  affection  wish  him  less  ? 

Yet,  could  we  ask  for  more  1 


131 


132 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 


BY  WILLIAM  L.   STONE. 


"  Open  your  ears :  for  which  of  you  will  stop 
The  vent  of  hearing,  when  loud  Rumor  spe&ksV— Shake. 


Uncle  Zim,  as  we  used  to  call  him,  was  as  full 
of  fun  and  mischief  as  any  urchin  in  the  village. 
Near  by  his  domicil,  sojourned  Malichi  Fowler,  who 
married  the  accomphshed  Miss  Abigail  Pettibone, 
of  Hazlewood,  the  adjoining  town,  whose  brother, 
Ehakim  Pettibone,  in  process  of  time,  became  a 
deacon  of  the  church  in  that  parish.  The  distance 
was  only  about  twenty  miles,  and  deacon  Pettibone 
used  to  keep  every  thanksgiving  with  his  brother 
Fowler — uncle  Zim  not  unfrequently  making  one 
of  the  family  party.  But  though  uncle  Zim  was 
himself  a  Christian  professor,  according  to  the  Plat- 
form, and  in  the  main  walked  according  to  the 
vows  he  had  made,  yet  he  was  not  altogether  free 
from  carnal  ways.  He  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a 
fact,  and  was  fond  of  telling  ludicrous  stories,  which, 
in  his  hands,  were  seldom  diminished  by  repetition. 
He  could  not  for  the  soul  of  him  suppress  a  joke 
when  it  came  upon  his  tongue,  cut  where  it  would. 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   133 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  he  had  the  good,  or  the 
ill  fortune,  to  keep  the  pious  deacon  Pettibone  roar- 
ing with  laughter,  until  his  very  ribs  cracked  again. 
Much,  however,  it  grieved  the  good  man  afterwards, 
that  he  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  miith,  which 
he  was  half  persuaded  had  been  excited  as  a  snare 
by  the  evil  one,  and  it  preyed  upon  his  spirits  the 
whole  of  the  following  day,  on  his  return  to  Hazle- 
wood.  This  impression,  however,  soon  wore  away, 
and  he  lost  all  unpleasant  recollections  in  the  warm 
and  affectionate  smiles  with  which  he  was  welcomed 
to  the  little  family  circle  of  his  happy  and  peaceful 
abode. 

Soon  after  this  convivial  occurrence,  which  had, 
for  the  moment,  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  conscien- 
tious deacon  Pettibone's  inner  man,  uncle  Zim  made 
a  journey  to  Hazlewood  to  purchase  a  yoke  of  oxen 
of  Mr.  Ishmael  Crane,  nephew  of  Icha]x)d  Crane, 
the  celebrated  schoolmaster,  for  which  he  was  to 
pay  in  "  West  India  goods,"  after  the  return  of  the 
last  cargo  of  mules  and  white-fish,  shipped  by  him 
to  Jamaica.  Uncle  Zim's  wits  were  as  bright  as  a 
dollar ;  he  talked  as  slick  as  a  whistle  ;  and  he  was 
a  cute  chap  at  a  bargain,  as  Mr.  Ishmael  Crane  soon 
found  out. 

Mr.  Crane  took  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  con- 
sider, before  he  would  conclude  the  bargain,  and  as 
it  was  just  twelve  o'clock  by  the  conch-shell,  uncle 
Zim  thought  he  would  go  and  take  pot-luck  with 
deacon  Pettibone,  who  lived  near  the  schoolhouse 
hard  by.     By  the  way,  uncle  Zim  once  drove  a 

Vol.  I.  12 


134   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE- 

barter  ^villl  the  deacon  for  some  mules,  for  which 
the  deacon  always  thought  he  could  have  got  more 
if  he  had  known  what  they  were  bringing  at  the 
time  ;  tliough  as  uncle  Zim  only  toolc  him  at  his 
word  in  the  price  of  the  cattle,  he  had  nothing  to 
complain  of.     But  that  is  not  to  the  purpose. 

While  at  dinner,  Mr.  Ishmael  Crane  came  and 
called  the  deacon  out,  to  inquire  something  about 
the  character  of  my  uncle  Zim  ;  whereupon  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  took  place : 

'•  What  sort  of  a  man,"  asked  Mr.  Crane,  "  is  this 
'scpiirc  Bradley  ?" 

Deacon  Pettibone  had  not  forgotten  the  sale  of 
his  mules,  nor  uncle  Zim's  fat  stories,  and  his  merry 
ioke.',  over  deacon  Fowler's  pumpkin-pies  and  cider 
brandy ;  nor  his  own  supposed  delinquency  in  his 
late  unseemly  merriment. 

'•  What  sort  of  a  man  ?"  said  the  deacon,  repeat- 
ing his  words ; — "  why  he  is  a  member  of  good  Dr. 
Wakeman's  church,  in  Applebury,  I  reckon.*' 

''  Well ;  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Know  him  !  I  guess  I  do  !  He  lives  next  door 
to  brother  Fowler's ;  and  I  tell  you  lie  is  a  member 
of  Dr.  Wakeman's  church.    But  1  guess — " 

"  Guess !  guess  what  ?  Don't  you  think  he  is  good 
enough  for  my  brindle  four-year-olds  ?"' 

"  Why — yes — I  'spose  so — but  I  guess,  to  be  can- 
did—" 

'•  Zounds,  deacon  !  what  do  you  mean  by  your 
guesses,  and  your  buts  ?" 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   135 

"  Why,  if  I  must  say,  I  guess  that  God-ward  he 
means  to  do  the  thing  that's  right,  but  man-wardl 
reckon  he  is  a  little  twistical  or  so:'' 

Mr.  Ishmael  Crane  went  away,  and  deacon  Pet- 
tibone  returned  and  finished  his  dinner  with  uncle 
Zim.  When  deacon  Pettibone  stepped  out,  liow- 
ever,  he  had  unconsciously  left  the  door  ajar,  and 
the  consequence  was,  that  uncle  Zim  had  very  in- 
nocently heard  most  of  the  conversation.  But  he 
knew  that  the  deacon  had  no  malice  in  his  heart, 
and  he  knew  also  tlie  cause  of  his  scruples  in  quali- 
fying his  recommendation.  He  therefore  took  no 
notice  at  tlie  time  of  what  had  been  said  :  but  deter- 
mined, in  his  own  mind,  to  seek  some  innocent  and 
characteristic  mode  of  revenge.  Meantime  he  com- 
pleted his  bargain  in  the  afternoon,  and  drove  the 
bullocks  home. 

Two  or  three  years  rolled  away,  and  as  his  sister 
Abigail  presented  his  brother-in-law  with  so  many 
young  Fowlers,  that  she  had  little  time  for  going 
abroad  herself,  deacon  Pettibone's  visits  to  Applebu- 
ry  were  continued  as  usual;  on  which  occasions  he 
always  passed  an  evening  or  so  in  uncle  Zim's  com- 
pany, cither  at  his  own,  or  his  brothei's  house.  Un- 
cle Zinc's  bosom  was  filled  with  the  milk  of  human 
kindness.  Though  like  an  over-ripe  melon,  rough 
on  the  outside,  as  the  poet  says,  there  was  much 
sweetness  under  it;  and  his  winning  ways  were 
such,  that  the  good  deacon  had  long  since  dismiss- 
ed the  affair  of  the  mules,  and  the  temporary  trials 
to  wliicli  he  had  been  subjected  by  his  irresistible 


136   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

drollery.  They  therefore  continued  the  best  friends 
in  the  world  ;  still  uncle  Zim  never  lost  sight  of  his 
project  in  some  way  of  avenging  himself  for  having 
been  represented  as  being  "  man- ward  rather  twisti- 
cal  or  so."' 

One  morning,  bright  and  early,  as  deacon  Fowler 
came  out  picking  his  teeth  from  breakfast,  while 
the  dew-drops  were  yet  spangling  the  meadows,  he 
saw  uncle  Zim  just  preparing  to  mount  the  old 
dapple  mare,  with  his  butternut-colored  coat  strap- 
ped on  behind  the  saddle. 

•'  Good  morning,  'squire,"  said  deacon  Fowler, 
"  you  seem  to  be  stirring  arly  this  morning." 

"  Yes,"  said  uncle  Zim  :  "  in  the  hot  season,  the 
morning  is  the  best  part  of  the  day — Gad,  my  son, 
mind  that  you  keep  the  cattle  out  of  the  clover 
patch  to  day" 

"A  very  beautiful  day  to-day,  as  I  was  saying. 


'squue 


"And  send  Jehiel  to  mill  this  afternoon. — Yes, 

deacon,  a  fine,  beautiful  day.  The  air  is  as  sweet 
as  a  new  hay-stack  this  morning." 

"  You  are  going  to  take  a  ride  to  day,  I  guess, 
'squire.  Pray  which  way  are  you  journeying,  if  I 
may  be  so  bold  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  only  going  to  Haudam  to  speak  for 
grave-stones  for  good  old  aunt  Wealthy  Crook- 
shanks."' 

"You'll  go  through  Hazlewood,  I  guess?  So,  I 
wash  you'd  give  brother  Pettibone  a  call  and  see 
how  they're   all   dewing  there.     Tell  them   that 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.    ^37 

Nabby's  got  another  nice  boy.  with  eyes  as  bright 
as  a  weasel's." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it's  like-enougli  that  I  shall  stop 
and  give  Dapple  a  bait  there  on  my  return." 

'•  D'ye  think  it's  going  to  rain  to  clay,  'squire  7  1 
see  you've  got  your  great-coat  with  you,  and  if  I 
thought  'twould  rain,  I'd  tell  the  boys  to  get  the 
rest  of  the  hay  in." 

"Don't  know,  don't  know,  deacon:  they  say  a 
fool  knows  enough  to  take  a  great-coat  when  it 
storms ;  and  every  body  knows  that  folks  must 
make  hay  while  the  sun  shines."  And  off  rode  un- 
cle Zim,  and  into  the  orchard  went  deacon  Fowler. 

Uncle  Zim  came  back  in  the  evening,  and  over- 
took deacon  Fowler,  returning  from  the  meadow, 
just  as  he  had  descended  to  tlie  foot  of  Clapboard 
hill. 

"Ah  !  is  that  you,  'squire  ?"  said  deacon  Fowler  : 
"  you  are  home  arly  to  night,  I  calculate." 

"Yes,"  replied  uncle  Zim:  "old  Dapple  will 
carry  me  along  at  the  rate  of  seven  miles  an  hour, 
day  in  and  day  out,  without  putting  on  the  long  oats 
neither." 

"  A  faithful  beast,  I  vow.  You  saw  brother  Petti- 
bone,  I  hope  ?" 

"Yes — I  saw  him" — replied  uncle  Zim,  with  a 
grave,  mysterious  air,  such  as  deacon  Fowler  had 
never  seen  before,  upon  his  neighbor's  lively  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Saw  him  ! — he  was  well,  I  hope?" 

"  Why — yes — he  was — prettv  well,  I  believe." 
12* 


138   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

''Nothing  unusual  was  the  matter,  I  hope, 
'squire. 

"  No — I — I  can't  say  that  there  was  any  thing 
imiisiial,^^  rephed  uncle  Zim.  with  a  pecuhar  em- 
phasis upon  the  last  word. 

'•  And  how  were  his  family  ?" 

"All  very  well ;  save  the  youngest  child,  Habak- 
kuk;  which  has  the  measles.'' 

'•'  And  brother  Pettibone  himself,  is  he  ailing  in 
any  way  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  that  he  was  much  aihng.  Perhaps, 
moreover,  I  was  mista — no  I  can't  be  mistaken 
either." 

''Why,  'squire,  you  frighten  me.  For  goodness' 
sake  what  was  the  matter  !  You're  sure  you  saw 
him?" 

"Yes: — I — I  met  him,"  replied  uncle  Zim.  with 
the  same  assumed  air  of  mj^stery. 

"  And  how  was  he  ?  do  speak  out,  and  let  me 
know  the  worst  on't,  'squire." 

"  Why,  then — if  I  must  say" — replied  uncle  Zim 
— "  I  should  think  when  I  met  him,  he  was  about 
— yes — ^just  about  half  shaved^ 

•'Impossible!  you  must  be  joking,  'squire." 

"  It's  true,  joke  or  no  joke,"  said  uncle  Zim. 

By  this  time  the  parties  had  reached  the  green. 
The  last  two  sentences  of  uncle  Zim's,  had  fallen 
upon  the  worthy  deacon  Fowler,  like  a  pail  of  ice- 
w^ater ;  and  he  went  to  his  house  with  a  heavy  heart. 
He  did  not  sleep  a  wink  all  that  night,  and  the  hu- 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.    139 

milialing  fact  pressed  so  heavily  upon  his  mind — 
though  it  was  his  first  intention  to  have  kept  it  a 
profound  secret,  until  he  could  have  inquired  into 
the  particulars  of  his  brother's  being  overcome  with 
liquor, — that  he  was  even  constrained  to  communi- 
cate the  dismal  tidings  to  his  faithful  Abigail.  It 
was  indeed  planting  a  pang  in  her  breast,  without 
extracting  the  barb  which  rankled  in  his  own  bleed- 
ing bosom.  But  truly  hath  the  poet  said  of 
woman, 

"When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thouj" — 

and  Abigail,  after  the  first  gush  of  feeling  had  sub- 
sided, half  forgot  her  own  sorrow  in  her  affection- 
ate endeavors  to  soothe  that  of  her  husband.  A 
thousand  little  comforting  hopes,  excuses,  and  pal- 
hating  circumstances  came  into  her  mind.  Her 
brother  might  not  have  been  so  badly  off  as  the 
'squire  supposed.  He  might  have  been  unwell ;  or 
perhaps  he  had  been  overcome  by  drinking  ever  so 
little  on  an  empty  stomach.  The  deacon  folded 
his  faithful  spouse  closer  to  his  heart,  and  both  de- 
termined that  nothing  should  be  said  about  the  cir- 
cumstance, even  in  their  family,  for  the  present. 
And  between  haying  time  and  harvest,  it  was 
agreed  that  deacon  Fowler  should  go  up  to  Hazle- 
wood,  and  commune  with  his  brother  Pettibone, 
privately,  upon  the  subject. 

But  Mrs.  Abigail  Fowler,  notwithstanding  her 
many  fine  quahties,  was  not  entirely  free  from  the 
frailties  of  the  other  daughters  of  Eve;  and  w^hile 


140   VNCLB  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

alone  on  the  ensuing  day,  her  husband  being  en- 
gaged with  his  v.'Orkmen  in  the  fields,  the  secret  be- 
came so  burdensome  that  she  wanted  somebody  to 
help  her  keep  it.  Perhaps,  also,  in  her  affliction,  she 
thought  she  needed  the  sympathies  of  one,  at  least 
of  her  most  confidential  female  friends,  who  might, 
in  turn,  soothe  her  sorrows,  and  pour  a  few  drops  of 
balsam  into  her  wounded  heart.  In  an  evil  hour 
therefore,  she  revealed  the  tale  of  woe  to  Mrs.  Aim- 
well,  who  kindly  spent  the  whole  afternoon  in  com- 
forting the  afflicted  woman,  by  telling  over  how 
many  others  were  suffering  under  still  greater  cala- 
mities. Temperance  societies  had  not  then  been 
invented. 

Mrs.  Aimwell  left  the  deacon's  after  tea,  promising 
not  to  whisper  a  breath  about  it.  ''You  know,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Fowler,"  said  she,  "  that  I  wouldn't  do 
no  such  thing  for  the  world."  But  she,  too,  want- 
ed some  one  to  help  Aer  keep  the  secret,  and  so  she 
hinted  it  to  Mrs.  Sly.  This  was  enough.  It  was 
on  Thursday:  and  it  was  no  longer  than  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  next  day,  at  a  meeting  of  the  frag- 
ment society,  that  the  members  were  startled  by  the 
exclamation  of  Mrs.  Doolittle,  preceded  by  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  Dear  me !  who'd  have  thought  it !  Well,  I 
don't  know  who  will  fall  next,  for  my  part." 

Now,  justice  to  Mrs.  Doohttle  requires  me  to  say 
in  this  place,  that  she  was  no  mischief-maker ;  and, 
that  next  to  a  witch,  she  held  a  slanderer  in  utter 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   141 

abomination.  She  was  a  very  tidy  body,  and  the 
worthy  helpmate  of  my  venerated  great  uncle,  Cap- 
tain Jasper  Doolittle,  of  Cohabit.  There  was  no 
more  notable  housewife  in  all  the  parish.  She  used 
to  begin  her  washing  on  Sabbath-day  nights,  as 
soon  as  three  stars  could  be  seen,  in  order  to  have 
her  ample  stores  of  linen,  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
streaming  in  triumph  upon  the  clothes-lines,  like 
the  lily-flag  of  the  fallen  Bourbons,  at  an  earlier 
hour  than  her  neighbors  on  Mondays.  And  her 
c|uince-and-apple-5a«ce,  and  boiled  cider,  were  ex- 
actly the  best  to  be  found  between  Branford  and 
Pettypaug.  But,  rest  her  good  soul !  her  benevo- 
lent heart  occasionally  felt  too  deeply  for  others' 
woes,  to  enable  her  always  to  hide  the  faults  she 
saw  or  heard  of.  Not  but  that  she  meant  to  do  it. 
But  as  in  the  instance  before  us,  there  were  some- 
times secrets  actually  too  great  to  be  concealed  with- 
in the  narrow  casement  of  her  noble  soul,  and  then 
it  was  imposible  to  prevent  their  breaking  forth  in 
exclamations  full  of  meaning,  as  we  have  seen. 
'•  Dear  me  !    who'd  have  thought  it,"  ifec. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  a  dozen 
voices  at  once.  '•  I  hope,"  continued  Miss  Tabitha 
Tattler,  a  lady  of  no  particular  age,  "  that  the  shock- 
ing story  about  Miss  Prim  is  not  true.  But  Pve 
heard  as  much  ever  since  Ned  Bramble  came  home 
from  the  south.  She's  kept  company  with  him  ever 
since  last  thanksgiving." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Doolittle,  with  a  melancholy 
shake  of  the  head.    "  That's  hke-enough  too.     But 


142   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

liavnl  you  heard  of  the  fall  of  good  deacon  Petti- 
bone  /'■ 

"  Of  Hazlewood  ?  He  liaint  hurt  himself  much, 
I  hope  ?" 

"  I  don't  mean  a  fall  from  a  barn  or  a  hay-stack, 
child,"'  said  Mrs.  Doolittle.  "  Bat  havn't  you  heard 
on't?'' 

'•  No  !"  replied  sixteen  voices  in  a  breath.  '^  Do 
let  us  hear  all  about  it." 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Doolittle,  "  you  must  know  its 
a  great  secret  yet ;  and  one  doesn't  want  to  expose 
a  body's  faiUngs,  you  know.  But  I'll  tell  you, 
though  it  must  not  go  from  me,  for  I  wouldn't  in- 
jure the  hair  of  any  mortal  being's  head.  You 
know  I  cannot  endure  scandal !  And  all  I  can 
now  say  is,  that  Mrs.  Crampton  told  me,  that  she 
heard  Mr.  Wilcox's  wife  say,  that  Mrs.  Munger's 
aunt  mentioned  to  her,  that  Mrs.  Graves  was  pre- 
sent when  the  widow  Blatchley  said,  that  Ick. 
Scran's  wife  thought  Captain  Evett's  sister  believed 
that  old  Mrs.  Willard  reckoned,  that  Ephraim  Sta- 
nard's  better  half  had  told  Mrs,  Hand,  that  she 
heard  Mrs.  Sly  say,  that  deacon  Fowler's  wife  had 
told  Mrs.  Aimwell,  as  a  great  secret,  that  the  deacon 
had  told  her,  that  'squire  Biadlcy  had  seen  deacon 
Pettibone  dead  drunk  after  an  ordination  dinner."* 

'•'  Do  tell !"  was  the  brief  and  emphatic  exclama- 
tion of  the  benevolent  coterie. 


*  As  Joe  Miller  was  a  native  of  Applebury,  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  thus  using  and  amending  one  of  his  earliest  jokes. 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   X43 

This,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  was  on  Fri- 
day, and  the  subtle  electrical  liuid  could  scarcely 
hav'e  travelled  faster  than  did  the  story  of  the  dea- 
con's failing.     From  mouth  to  mouth — 

*'  The  flying  rumor  gathered  as  it  rolled, 
And  scarce  the  tale  was  sooner  heard  than  told  ; 
And  all  who  told  it  added  something  new — 
And  all  who  heard  it  made  enlargement  too — 
In  every  ear  it  spread,  on  every  tongue  it  grew" — 

so  that  before  Saturday  night,  the  fatal  account  had 
reached  Hazle\vood,  enlarged  and  improved,  until 
the  story  of  the  three  black  crows  was  nothing  to  it. 
Nor  did  it  hesitate  to  travel  Saturday  night,  although 
the  blue-laws  were  then  yet  in  force.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  before  the  cows  were  all  milked  on 
Sunday  morning,  every  body,  out  of  the  deacon's 
unsuspecting  family,  was  acquainted  with  the  me- 
lancholy catastrophe  supposed  to  have  overtaken 
that  truly  excellent  man. 

Of  course  the  painful  news  was  the  general  theme 
of  conversation  among  the  groups  which  collected 
around  the  portals  of  the  sanctuary,  while  the  bell 
was  tolhng  for  the  minister — the  late  excellent  and 
reverend  Mr.  Gamaliel  Holdfast.  The  deacon  pre- 
sently approached  ;  but  never  before  was  he  so 
coldly  greeted  by  his  friends.  And  as  for  enemies, 
it  is  believed  that  he  never  had  one.  Every  coun- 
tenance seemed  looking  darkly  upon,  or  averted 
from  him.  People  even  seemed  to  shrink  from  the 
proffered  grasp  of  his  friendly  hand.     But  the  good 


144   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

deacon,  in  the  unsuspecting  simplicity  of  his  inno- 
cence, did  not  observe  the  change,  and  as  the  mi- 
nister came  along,  all  gathered  into  the  venerable 
meeting-house.  Every  body  cast  a  searching  eye — 
'•'  a  furtive  glance,"  our  friend  Cooper  would  say — 
upon  the  deacon ;  while  he  was  engaged,  as  others 
should  have  been,  in  searching  his  own  heart. 

The  services  proceeded  as  usual ;  but  at  the  close, 
the  minister  gave  out  a  notice  for  a  special  meeting 
of  the  elders  and  deacons  of  the  church,  to  be  held 
on  Wednesday,  upon  business  of  great  importance. 
And  after  exhorting  his  little  flock  so  to  conduct 
themselves  as  to  show,  that  though  in  the  world, 
they  were  not  of  the  world,  and  suitably  admonish- 
ing the  officers,  as  assistant  shepherds,  to  make 
themselves  patterns  in  good  works — not  forgetting 
to  remind  them  of  the  passage,  "Let  him  that 
standeth  take  heed  lest  he  fall" — (upon  which 
stolen  glances  were  again  cast  at  the  good  deacon 
Pettibone) — the  benediction  was  pronounced.  The 
deacon,  however,  did  not  observe,  and  never  once 
thought;  that  he  was  the  sole  object  of  this  special 
exhortation,  or  of  the  dark  and  suspicious  gaze  of 
the  congregation.  His  heart  was  right,  and  his 
eyes  had  been  closed  in  the  attitude  of  deep  and 
heartfelt  adoration.  Thus  he  who  was  most  inte- 
rested in  the  dark  givings  out,  was  least  conscious 
of  their  existence. 

The  story,  as  we  have  already  seen,  had  grown 
in  its  travels,  like  that  of  the  boy  who  saw  the 
thousand  cats  in  the  cellar ;  and  for  the  three  sub- 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   145 

sequent  days  the  deacon's  house  was  shunned  as 
though  it  had  been  the  seat  of  the  plague.  Mean- 
time, as  uncle  Zim's  name  was  some  how  connect- 
ed with  the  tale,  one  of  the  elders  was  despatched 
to  Applebury,  to  inquire  into  the  real  facts  of  the 
statement  wliich  had  brought  such  heavy  and  un- 
expected scandal  upon  the  little  Zion  of  Hazlewood. 
On  his  arrival,  he  immediately  had  an  interview 
w^ith  vuicle  Zim,  and  commenced  an  inquiry  into 
the  facts  of  the  case  which  had  brought  him  to  Ap- 
plebury. 

"  'Squire  Bradley,"  said  Mr.  Elnathan  Cook— for 
such  was  the  cognomen  of  this  important  messen- 
ger— "  it  is  rumored  up  our  way.  that  you  have  said 
that  you  met  deacon  Pettibone  last  week,  drunk." 

'•  Then  I  guess  rumor  lies,"  replied  uncle  Zim^ 
"  for  I  haint  said  no  such  thing." 

"  But  pray,  'squire,  what  did  you  say,  if  I  may 
be  so  bold  ?" 

"  Why,"  replied  uncle  Zim,  ^-I  only  said  that  I 
met  him  about  AaZ/"  shaved." 

The  result  was,  that  although  jMr.  Elnathan 
Cook  was  one  of  the  'cutest  chaps  in  those  parts 
at  a  cross-examination,  he  having  formerly  been  an 
unlicensed  practitioner  of  the  law  in  a  justice's  court, 
he  obtained  just  so  much  information  from  uncle 
Zim,  and  no  more.  Uncle  Zim  was  requested  to 
go  up  to  Hazlewood  and  attend  the  council  as  a 
witness;  but  tbis  he  declined  peremptorily,  as  he 
was  busily  engaged  in  making  up  a  cargo  of  mules 
for  the  West  Indies.    He  assured  the  zealous  Elna- 

VOL.  I.  13 


146       XJNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE. 

than,  however,  that  deacon  Pettibone's  negro  man, 
CamiUus,  or  Cam,  as  he  was  called  for  the  sake  of 
brevity,  knew  as  much  as  he  did,  and  could  tell 
them  all  about  it.  As  Cam  was  known  to  be  a 
very  honest  fellow,  this  assurance  gave  the  messen- 
ger much  satisfaction;  so  he  clambered  into  his 
"  one  horse  shay,"  and  got  him  back  to  Hazlewood. 

The  wheels  of  time  rapidly  brought  Wednesday 
along,  w4ien  the  church  council  assembled,  and  the 
yet  unsuspecting  deacon  Pettibone,  expecting  to 
hear  the  names  of  some  reclaimed  sinners  pro- 
pounded for  membership,  came  among  them.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Holdfast  was  appointed  moderator.  An 
unusual  air  of  solemnity  pervaded  the  council,  and 
in  imploring  the  direction  and  blessing  of  heaven 
upon  their  proceedings,  the  moderator  was  peculiar- 
ly earnest,  and  much  affected.  Indeed  the  half- 
suppressed  sighs  from  various  bosoms,  plainly  indi- 
cated that  they  had  business  in  hand  which  w^ent 
home  to  their  hearts. 

At  length  the  momentous  subject  of  their  meet- 
ing was  opened,  and  the  charge  of  intemperance 
formally  preferred  against  no  less  a  master  in  Israel 
than  deacon  Eliakim  Pettibone,  then  and  there  pre- 
sent. Had  a  bolt  from  heaven  fallen  at  his  feet,  he 
could  not  have  been  more  astonished  or  confounded. 
For  a  while  his  hand  pressed  upon  his  temples — 
he  remained  dumb  with  amazement — then  raising 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  solemnly  protested  his  inno- 
cence, but  in  vain ;  and  in  vain  did  he  tax  his  me- 
mory to  recall  any  circumstance  in  his  life  that 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.   147 

could  have  given  rise  to  such  an  unlooked  for  scan- 
dal. In  vain,  hkewise,  did  he  demand  the  name 
of  the  informer  upon  whose  testimony  the  accusa- 
tion was  preferred ;  for  uncle  Zim  had  stipulated 
that  his  name  was  not  to  be  used,  save  in  the  very 
last  resort.  Finally,  the  witness  Camillus  was 
sent  for. 

Camillus  soon  arrived,  and  came  grinning  into 
the  conference  room,  exhibiting  the  whole  treasury 
of  his  ivory ;  but  he  immediately  saw  that  his  kind 
master  was  in  deep  affliction,  and  his  own  heart 
soon  yearned  with  compassion.  There  the  good 
deacon  sat,  his  head  bowed  down,  and  supported  by 
his  hands.  He  raised  it  not,  but  hid  his  tears  in  his 
bandanna,  and  smothered  the  sighs  heaving  up  and 
struggling  to  escape  his  throbbing  bosom. 

"  Cam,"  said  the  moderator,  with  solemn  gravity, 
"  we  have  sent  for  you  because  we  want  you  to  tell 
the  truth." 

"  Yes,  massa  minister,  me  alba3^s  tell  de  troot  to 
sliame  'e  debble." 

"  Well,  Cam,  we  believe  you  will.  Now  tell  us, 
Cam,  did  you  ever  see  your  master  intoxicated?" 

"Me  ebber  see  massa  tosticated !  Golly,  only 
tink  ob  dat !" 

''  But,  Cam,  you  must  tell  us  the  truth ;  now 
didn't  you  ever  see  your  master  when  he  was  in- 
toxicated— when  he  had  drunk  too  much?" 

"  Golly,  no,  massa  minister." 

[Here  a  consultation  took  place  among  a  few  of 
the  members  of  the  council,  in  an  under  tone  ] 


148   UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTI  BONE. 

"  Don't  you  remember  that  'squire  Bradle}^,  who 
lives  ill  the  second  house  beyond  the  stocks  and 
whipping-post;  north  of  the  meeting-house  in  Ap- 
plebury,  came  up  to  see  your  master  last  Wednes- 
day?^ 

'•'  Yes,  massa,  me  know  dat  berry  well." 

"  Well,  that's  veiy  good  now,  Cam ;  and  when 
'squire  Bradley  met  your  master,  was  he  not  about 
half  shaved  /" 

"  O  3"e3,  massa ;  when  'squire  Bradley  ride  by  'e 
window,  massa  Pettibone  was  juss  shaving  heself, 
I  guess;  but  den  he  so  grad  to  see  de  'squire,  he 
run  out  door  to  shakee  hand,  wid  'e  lather  all  on 
one  side  he  face!'' 

Here  the  mighty  mystery  was  solved.  All  knew 
the  droll  mischievous  character  of  uncle  Zim,  and 
the  truth  flashed  upon  their  minds  in  an  instant.  A 
bitter  smile  played  across  the  features  of  the  good 
deacon,  as  he  meekly  raised  his  dark  hazle  eyes, 
glistening  with  tears,  and  in  his  heart  returned 
thanks  for  his  dehverance.  The  council  was 
broken  up— a  thousand  sincere  apologies  were  ten- 
dered to  the  good  man- — ^and  the  parties  all  set 
their  faces  towards  their  respective  homes — the 
worthy  deacon  being  more  strongly  than  ever  con- 
vinced, that  "Man- WARD,  Uncle  Zim  was  ra- 
ther  TWISTICAL    OR    SO." 


A  POET'S   DAUGHTER. 

BY  FITZ-GREEXE  HALLECK. 
Written  for  Miss ,  at  the  request  of  her  Father. 

'•'  A  LADY  asks  the  minstrel's  rhyme." 
A  lady  asks  1 — There  was  a  time, 
When,  musical  as  play-bells  chime 

To  wearied  boy. 
That  sound  would  summon  dreams  sublime 

Of  pride  and  joy. 

But  now  the  spell  hath  lost  its  sway, 
Life's  first-born  fancies  first  decay, 
Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennons  gay 

Of  young  romance  ; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 

And  broken  lance. 

"  This  is  no  world,"  so  Hotspur  said, 
For  "tilting  lips"  and  "mammets"  made, 
No  longer  in  love's  myrtle  shade 

My  thoughts  recline — 
I'm  busy  in  the  cotton  trade, 

And  sugar  line. 

"  'Tis  youth,  'tis  beauty  asks — the  green 
"  And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 
"Are  round  her  ;  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 

"A  violet  flower  : 
"  Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  been 

"  From  childhood's  hour." 

13* 


1  50  A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

Blind  passion's  picture — yet  for  this 
We  woo  the  life-long  bridal  kiss, 
And  blend  our  every  hope  of  bliss 

With  hers  we  love  ; 
Hers — who  admired  a  serpent's  hiss 

In  Eden's  grove  ! 

Beauty — the  fading  rainbow's  pride, 
Youth — 'twas  the  charm  of  her  who  died 
At  dawn,  and,  by  her  coffin's  side, 

A  grandsire  stands ; 
Age-strengthened,  like  the  oak,  storm-tried, 

Of  mountain  lands. 

Youth's  coffin — hush  the  tale  it  tells ! 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells  I 
Lone  in  my  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells, 

Untold  till  death. 
And  where  the  grave-mound  gi-eenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith. 

"  But  she  who  asks  hath  rank  and  power, 
"  And  treasured  gold,  and  banner'd  tower, 
"A  kingdom  for  her  marriage  dower, 

"  Broad  seas  and  lands ; 
"  Armies  her  train,  a  throne  her  bower — 

'*  A  queen  commands !" 

A  queen  1     Earth's  regal  suns  have  set. 
Where  perished  Marie  Antoinette  1 
Where's  Bordeaux's  mother  1  where  the  jet- 

Black  Haytien  dame  1 
And  Lusitania's  coronet  1 

And  Angoulemel 

Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown, 

A  brick-bat's  range. 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown, 

Five  shillings  change. 


A  POET'S  DAUGHTER.  151 

<'  Another  asks — though  first  among 
'*  The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
"  The  birthright  of  a  spell  more  strong 

•'  Than  these  hath  brought  her  ; 
"  She  is  your  kinswoman  in  song, 

"  A  poet's  daughter  !" 

A  poet's  daughter  ?     Could  I  claim 
The  consanguinity  of  fame. 
Veins  of  my  intellectual  frame, 

Your  blood  would  glow 
Proudly,  to  sing  that  gentlest  name 

Of  aught  below ! 

A  poet's  daughter  !     Dearer  word 
Lip  hath  not  spoke,  nor  listener  heard  ; 
Fit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird 

From  morn  till  even, 
And  wind-harp,  by  the  breathing  stirred 

Of  star-lit  heaven. 

My  spirit's  wings  are  weak — the  fire 

Poetic  comes  but  to  expire, 

Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live  ; 
She  hath  already  from  her  sire 

All  bard  can  give. 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 


BY  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 


LETTER  I. 


Saratoga  Springs,  July  22,  1833. 

Dear  *** — The  jaunt  from  Albany  to  Saratoga, 
over  the  rail-road,  can  now  be  accomplished  in  less 
than  three  hours,  and  the  consequence  is  that,  even 
at  this  early  season,  nearly  all  the  hotels  and  board- 
houses  in  the  village  are  thronged  with  visitors. 
There  cannot  be  less  than  three  thousand  strangers 
here  at  the  present  time,  and  every  car  is  constant- 
ly adding  to  the  number.  Congress-hall  is,  as  for- 
merly, the  resort  of  the  light-hearted,  the  gay,  the  idle, 
and  the  fashionable ;  but  those  who  come  to  partake 
of  the  hfe-giving  waters,  generally  repair  to  more  con- 
genial and  quiet  abodes.  To  those  disposed  to  be 
busy,  there  is  no  lack  of  employment.  What  with 
eating  and  drinking,  walking  and  riding,  gunning 
and  fishing,  dancing  and  flirting — balls,  concerts, 
and  parties — dressing  for  this,  that,  and  the  other, 
and  similar  suitable,  and  equally  profitable  occupa- 
tions, time  is  disposed  of  without  the  least  trouble. 
Every  thing  is  calculated  to  beguile  one  of  pensive 
thoughts,  and  occasionally  there  is  an  entertain- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  X53 

ment  of  no  ordinary  description.  The  other  even- 
ing, for  instance,  we  had  a  musical  soiree,  in  which 
that  accomphshed  song-bird,  Miss  Hughes,  assisted 
by  Sinclair,  Horn,  and  other  professional  persons, 
took  part.  The  large  room  of  the  United  States  ho- 
tel was  occupied  by  an  audience  resembling  those 
which  attended  the  Payne  and  Dunlap  festivals; 
all  the  performers  were  in  fine  spirits,  and  sung  and 
played  delightfully.  The  "  Young  Cavalier,"  the 
"  Mermaid's  Cave,"  and  "  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  in 
particular,  were  given  by  Miss  Hughes  in  her  own 
impressive  manner,  and  are  now  remembered  as 
"  faded  strains  that  float  upon  the  mind  like  half- 
forgotten  dreams."  This  young  lady  never  looked 
more  lovely,  nor  warbled  her  melodies  with  more 
effect. 


Gossip,  scandal,  and  killing  character,  are  consi- 
dered innocent  pastime  at  Saratoga.  I  am  writing 
this  at  a  window  that  overlooks  the  piazza  of  Con- 
gress-hall. The  weather  is  pleasant — the ''shades 
of  evening  thicken  slowly,"  and  the  tide  of  fashion 
is  flowing  beneath  me  like  the  waves  of  the  sea.  I 
have  been  told  the  history  and  condition  of  nume- 
rous individuals,  and,  for  want  of  better  materials, 
and  in  compliance  with  the  universal  custom  of  all 
modern  letter-writers,  I  will  point  out  a  few  of  the 
most  conspicuous  for  your  especial  diversion. 

First,  we  have  a  whole  platoon  of  gentlemen 
with  canes,  most  of  whom  have  been  the  subjects  of 
much  enviable  conversation  lately.     Johnson  says 


154  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

that  "  a  person  who  carries  a  cane  has  generally  an 
upper  story  to  let !"'  The  doctor  was  undoubtedly 
a  very  great  man,  and  a  close  observer  of  hiunan 
nature.  His  opinions,  with  me,  have  all  the  sanc- 
tion of  law  authority. 

You  perceive  that  stout  gentleman  in  black? 
He  is  an  epicure,  and  does  little  else  than  eat,  the 
live-long  day.  He  made  a  voyage  to  London  last 
year  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  a  dish  of 
soles  with  shrimp  sauce !  and  has  come  to  the 
springs  now  to  put  his  digestive  apparatus  in  good 
order,  before  the  ensuing  season  of  plum-puddings, 
buckwheat-cakes  and  mince-pies,  three  prime  arti- 
cles, of  which  he  professes  to  be  exceedingly  fond, 
and  of  which  he  is  said,  about  the  holidays,  to  devour 
a  most  inordinate  quantity.  He  plays  the  best  knife 
and  fork  in  the  village,  and  is  the  admiration  of  all 
the  gourmands  at  the  south.  Move  on,  old  Fal- 
staff! 

Room  for  a  travelled  dandy — a  fellow  who  went 
abroad  a  puppy,  and  returned  as  he  went — with 
nothing  added  to  his  former  stock  of  information, 
except  the  cut  of  his  garments,  a  short-napped  hat, 
and  that  pair  of  enormous  whiskers— in  all  of  which 
he  "  reigns  and  revels  !" 

Yonder  floats  a  little  man,  with  a  little  stick,  a 
httle  pair  of  gloves,  and  a  Httle  voice.  He  is  enga- 
ged to  that  enormously  fat  young  widow  beside  him, 
whose  fortune  is  estimated  at  sixty  thousand  dollars. 
The  little  man  is  not  worth  a  groat,  and  is  the  very 
antipodes  of  his  dulcinea ;  but  you  know, 

*•  In  joining  contrasts  lieth  love's  delight." 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  155 

Here  comes  a  foreigner  of  distinction — a  duke  ! 
Mark  his  princely  air  and  noble  carriage.  Observe 
the  diamond  hoop  upon  his  little  finger,  and  the 
circling  hair  upon  his  upper  Up  !  Is  he  not  a  mag- 
nificent specimen  of  the  "paragon  of  animals'?" 
For  the  last  six  hours  he  has  been  the  "  observed 
of  all  observers,"  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place, 
and  his  flirtation  with  a  certain  meek,  blue-eyed 
quakeress,  at  the  Union,  who,  for  his  dear  sake,  is 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  read  out  of  meeting, 
has  created  the  first  positive  sensation  of  the  season. 
The  duke  is  reported  to  be  immensely  rich — the 
lady  is  knoivn  to  be  so. 

"  The  form  of  Hercules  aflfects  the  sylphs." 

But  who  is  that  mild,  intellectual-looking  being, 
languishing  in  the  shade?  She  is  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  General  Van  R.  and  talking  to  Chan- 
cellor K.  That  lady,  I  mean,  attired  in  the  plain 
white  dress,  with  her  hair  modestly  parted  on  her 
forehead — she  of  the  smiling  hp  and  speaking  eye — 

"  That  looks  not  like  the  inhabitants  0'  the  earth, 
And  yet  is  on't." 

Oh,  I  see — Miss  .     I  shoidd  have  known 

her  among  ten  thousand,  for  she  is  an  ornament  to 
her  s6x  and  country. 

What  a  contrast  she  presents  to  the  proud,  haughty 
belle  in  her  wake,  half  buried  beneath  the  weight 
of  gold  and  jewels  ! 

"  Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes." 


156  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

Heavens,  how  she  tosses  lier  pretty  head,  and  gives 
the  nod  of  recognition  to  those  around  lier ! 

"The  wealth  of  worlds  is  heaped  on  her  in  vain." 

Lady,  for  all  your  smiles  and  winning  ways,  I  do 
not  envy  the  poor  youth  who  ^vears  your  chains ; 
they  arc  woven  of  any  thing  but  flowers.  She  has 
the  riches  of  Croesus,  the  beauty  of  Hebe — but  the 

temper  of  Xantippe.    Yet  mind,  dear ,  I  tell 

you  this  in  confidence,  so  don't  let  it  go  any  fur- 
ther. 

But  what  have  we  next?  generals  and  judges, 
and  public  characters  by  the  score  !  A  whole  bevy 
of  widows,  old  maids,  and  solitary  spinsters,  without 
any  particular  claim  to  distinction. 

A  sudden  pause  in  the  crowd.  Several  carriages 
with  their  out-riders  have  rolled  up  to  the  door, 
emblazoned  with  the  crests  of  the  nobility  of 
this  democratic  land  !  I  cannot  admire  the  horses 
sufficiently ;  but  as  for  those  who  have  just 
alighted 

The  bell  rings  for  supper — so,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men— no  time  for  compliments. 


Is  it  not  strange  that  the  very  things  to  which 
this  village  is  indebted  for  all  its  consequence,  are 
most  neglected  ?  The  hotels  are  spacious — the  ac- 
commodations convenient,  and  the  attendance  un- 
exceptionable ;  but  the  springs  themselves  are  in  a 
shocking  condition.  Instead  of  splendid  colonnades, 
attractive  apartments,  spacious  pump-rooms,  mar- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  I57 

ble  counters,  sparkling  fountains,  and  neat,  well- 
dressed  women  to  wait  upon  the  company,  as  in 
other  countries,  you  are  compelled  to  stand  ankle- 
deep  in  the  mud,  or  upon  a  miserable  platform,  con- 
structed over  a  filthy  brook,  and  receive  the  water 
from  a  bare-footed,  meanly-clad  juvenile,  who  dips 
it  up  in  an  unclean  vessel,  and  flings  it  at  you  willi 
a  sleight  of  hand  peculiarly  his  own.  In  place  of 
taking  the  water  as  an  inviting,  health-restoring 
beverage,  you  seize  the  glass  with  a  wry  face 
and  an  involuntary  shudder,  and  swallow  its  con- 
tents with  the  same  repugnance  jou  entertain  for 
nauseous  medicine.  On  rainy  days,  invalids  can- 
not go  to  the  springs,  unless  they  are  satisfied  to 
have  the  outer  as  well  as  imier  man,  most  tho- 
roughly drenched,  as  there  is  no  friendly  covering 
to  shield  them  from  the  weather.  Really  this  is 
too  bad,  for  the  most  fashionable  watering-place  in 
America. 


LETTER  II. 


Congress-hall,  Saratoga,  July,  1833. 

Dear ,  The  tides  of  fashion,  like  those  of 

the  sea,  are  constantly  in  motion :  no  sooner  does 
one  wave  recede  than  another  takes  its  place ;  and 
so,  at  the  springs,  as  one  carriage  passes  away  with 
its  light-hearted  occupants,  another  arrives  at  the 
gate ;  and  there  stands  mine  host  of  the  Congress, 

Vol.  I.  14 


158  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

with  his  ever-pleasant  smile  and  courteous  bow, 
ready  to 

"Welcome  the  coming — speed  the  parting  guest." 

The  hasty  farewell  is  scarcely  spoken,  before  the 
'•new  arrival"  engrosses  all  the  attention;  and 
your  mineral-water  companion  of  yesterday  va- 
nishes from  your  memory,  to  make  room  for  some 
new  acquaintance  of  to-day,  who,  in  his  turn,  is 
also  doomed  to  mingle  with  the  misty  recollections 
of  the  past,  and,  in  a  brief  period,  to  be  forgotten 
forever.  Friendships  formed  here  are  fleeting  and 
evanescent.  Excitement  is  the  grand  object  of  pur- 
suit ;  and  how  can  people  be  so  unreasonable  as  to 
expect  those  to  /ee/,  who  never  have  leisure  to 
think  7 


Nearly  every  house  in  the  village  is  overflowing, 
and  visitors  are  still  coming.  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  give  you  a  particular  description  of  all  the  indi- 
viduals I  have  encountered  here  ;  and  for  ten  thou- 
sand reasons,  three  of  which,  however,  will  suffice  at 
the  present  time.  In  the  fiist  place,  I  have  no  idea 
of  manufacturing  a  book  of  travels  during  this  hot 
weather.  In  the  second,  (mark  what  an  eye  I  have 
for  business,)  most  of  the  people  here  are  subscri- 
bers to  the  Mirror,  and  I  never  take  any  liberties 
with  them,  you  know.  And  "  lastly,  and  to  con- 
clude," those  who  are  not  subscribers,  (if  any  such 
there  be  !)  cannot  be  supposed  worthy  of  either  the 

time  or  the  trouble.     Yet,  dear ,  if  you  will 

take  a  chair  with  me  in  this  spacious  drawing-room, 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  159 

(you  had  a  glimpse  at  the  piazza  in  my  last,)  I  will 
point  out  a  few  characters  from  among  the  com- 
pany here  assembled,  and  tell  you  all  I  know  about 
them.  This  may  amuse  you  till  the  bell  rings  for 
tea.  Oh,  come  along;  we  will  say  nothing  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  any  body,  for  scandal,  I  am 
aware,  is  your  abhorrence,  yet  it  is  a  very  fashion- 
able accomplishment  at  most  watering-places,  al- 
though, I  am  happy  to  say,  I  have  heard  little  of  it 
here. 


You  observe  that  mild,  matronly-looking  lady, 
near  the  window  yondei?  Is  she  not  a  pattern  of 
neatness  and  propriety  ?  Her  story  must  be  an  in- 
teresting one,  and  not  destitute  of  a  moral.  I  wish 
I  knew  it.  I  remember  her  from  my  boyhood,  and 
shall  never  forget  her  looks  one  fine  Sunday  morn- 
ing, as  she  entered  Trinity  church,  leaning  on  the 

arm  of  poor .     I  never  saw   any  thing  more 

beautiful  than  she,  at  that  moment,  appeared  to  my 
inexperienced  eyes  ;  all  my  after  dreams  of  female 
loveliness  were  associated  with  her.  I  could  not 
imagine  a  being  more  perfect ;  but  I  was  very 
young  then,  and  she  was  engaged  to  be  married. 
I  saw  her  again,  after  I  had  arrived  at  man's  estate  ; 

but  oh.  how  altered  !     She  was  still  single.     

and  she  had  some  misunderstanding,  and  he  had 
gone  to  England,  and  died  there.  I  think  they  told 
me.  I  never  heard  any  further  particulars.  Still 
she  was  much  admired  for  her  beauty,  and  beloved 
for  her  goodness  of  heart ;  and,  as  she  was  im- 


IGO  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

mensely  rich,  must  have  had  opportunities  enough 
of  forming  what  is  generally  understood,  a  "con- 
venient alliance,"  for  men,  or  I  am  much  mistaken, 
weie  as  Avorldly- wise  formerly  as  now.  I  never  saw 
her  afterward,  until  we  met  the  other  day  at  these 
springs.  There  are  more  old  maids  in  the  world 
than  remain  so  from  necessity. 


That  ''  no  American  should  wish  to  trace  his  an- 
cestry further  back  than  the  revolutionary  war,"  is 
a  good  sentiment.  1  admire  and  will  stand  by  it. 
Yet,  while  I  disapprove,  most  heartily,  of  the  con- 
ceited airs  and  flimsy  pretensions  which  certain  little 
people  arrogate  to  themselves  on  account  of  their 
birth-right,  I  cannot  subscribe  to  one  particle  of  the 
cant  I  am  in  the  habit  of  hearing  expressed  on  these 
subjects.  It  is  not  '■•  the  same  thing,*'  tome,  at  least, 
whether  my  father  was  a  count  or  a  coal-heaver,  a 
prince  or  a  pickpocket.  I  would  have  all  my  rela- 
tions, past,  present,  and  -to  come,  good  and  respecta- 
ble people,  and  should  prefer  the  blood  of  the  How- 
ards to  that  of  the  convicts  of  Botany-bay — nor  do  I 
believe  I  am  at  all  singular  in  these  particulars.  It 
is  nothing  more  than  a  natural  feeling.  Still  I 
would  not  think  ill  of  a  man  on  account  of  any  mis- 
fortune that  may  have  attended  his  birth,  nor  well 
of  a  man  simply  because  he  happened  to  be  cradled 
in  the  lap  of  aflHuence  and  power.  The  first  may 
be  one  of  nature's  noblemen,  and  the  other  a  poor 
dog,  notwithstanding  all  his  splendor ;  and  that 
this  frequently  happens,  every  day's  experience  af- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  ig^ 

fords  us  abundant  testimony.     That  the  claims  of 
all  to  distinction  should  rest  upon  one's  own  indivi- 
dual talents,  deportment,  and  character,  is  also  sound 
doctrine,  and  cannot  be  disputed  :  yet  this  is  no  rea- 
son why  we  should  not  have  an  honest  and  becoming 
pride  in  the  genius,  integrity,  or  gallant  bearing  of 
those  from  whom  we  sprung.     Now,  yonder  stands 
a  gentleman,  who,  in  my  humble  judgment,  cannot 
but  indulge  a  secret  glow  of  satisfaction,  while  con- 
templating the  roots  of  his  family  tree.     He  came 
from  a  good  stock — the  old  Dutch  settlers  of  New- 
Amsterdam — than  which  no  blood  that  flows  in  the 
human  veins  is  either  purer,  better,  or  braver.     His 
forefathers  were  eminently  conspicuous  as   Chris- 
tians, soldiers,  and  sages  ;  they  occupied  the  high 
places  of  honor  and  authority — were  the  ornaments 
of  their  day  and  generation,  and,  notwithstanding 
the  shade  of  ridicule  whicii  a  popular  writer  has 
cast  around  and  interwoven  with  their  histor)%  their 
memories  will  ever  be  cherished  until  virtue  ceases 
to   be   an   attribute  of  the  human  mind.      The 
public   spirit   of  this  gentleman    and    his   liberal 
views  have  long  been  the  theme  of  universal  praise  ; 
and  although  I  do  not  enjoy  the  privilege  of  his 
personal  acquaintance,  I  know  he  rtiust  be  a  gen- 
tleman— the  mild  and  benignant  expression  of  his 
face — his  unassuming  habits — his  bland  and  cour- 
teous demeanor,  all  bespeak  it ;  and,  to  use  the  lan- 
guage of  Q.ueen  Elizabeth,  are  unto  him  "  letters 
of  recommendation  throusfhout  the  world." 


U* 


162  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

That  gentleman  is  one  of  tlie  few  Americans  who 
combine  a  hteiaiy  taste  witli  indefatigable  business 
liabits.  Had  he  devoted  his  life  to  letters  instead  of 
merchandize,  he  would  have  been  conspicuous 
among  the  most  gifted  of  his  countrymen.  I  heard 
him  deliver  an  address  once,  that  surprised  me  by 
its  elegance  of  style,  and  literary  discrimination. 

But  this  is  a  money-making  land  ;  and  Mr. . 

like  Halleck,  Wetmore,  Sprague,  and  others,  has 
found  the  counting-house  more  profitable  than  the 
muses'  temple — his  account-book  more  certain  than 
all  books  besides — and  bank-notes  the  very  best 
notes  in  the  universe. 


Young is  famous  for  his  flute,  his  dog,  and 

the  number  of  his  servants.  He  never  travels  with- 
out half  a  dozen.  One  he  dresses  in  livery,  and  has 
him  always  within  calling  distance.  He  plays  the 
German  flute  with  great  unction,  and  with  a  most 
determined  air,  and  keeps  an  enormous  dog,  of  a 
very  pecuhar  breed,  constantly  at  his  heels.  He 
lodges  at hotel,  near  the  top  of  the  house- 
that  apartment  having  been  assigned  him  on  ac- 
count of  his  musical  propensities — he  not  wishing 
to  be  interrupted  in  his  studies,  and  the  landlord  de- 
siring to  have  the  neighborhood  disturbed  as  little 
as  possible  by  his  eternal  noise.  He  is  the  horror  of 
the  surrounding  country  ;  and  complaints  have  fre- 
quently been  lodged  against  him  for  annoying  quiet, 
well-disposed  citizens  throughout  the  day,  and  keep- 
ing them  awake  during  most  of  the  night.     Wher- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  I63 

ever  he  goes  he  pays  double  board,  as  all  fluting 
gentlemen  undoubtedly  ought  to  do,  and  therefore 
enjoys  a  kind  of  privilege  to  blow  away  as  loud  and 
as  often  as  he  thinks  proper.  His  man  in  livery 
answers  his  bell,  which  is  everlastingly  going.  At 
the  first  stroke  of  the  liammer  away  runs  John, 
and  away  runs  the  dog  close  behind  him.  It  is 
curious  to  see  these  two  worthies  hurrying  up  stairs, 
and  the  exhibition  never  fails  to  create  a  laugh 
throughout  the  building,  which,  however  amusing 
to  the  spectators,  is  a  source  of  the  deepest  mortifi- 
cation and  chagrin  to  poor  John,  who  is  the  butt  of 
all  his  associates  in  the  kitchen  on  this  account. 
John  has  long  looked  upon  himself  as  an  injured 
and  most  unfortunate  man,  and  once  summoned 
sufficient  resolution  to  remonstrate  with  his  master 
upon  his  grievances — telling  him,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  in  a  heart-rending  manner,  that  if  the  dog 
was  not  discharged,  he  should  be  compelled,  how- 
ever reluctantly,  and  notwithstanding  the  high 
wages,  to  look  out  for  another  situation,  as  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  say,  when  the  bell  rung,  which 
was  wanted,  the  dog  or  himself.  It  is  entirely  out 
of  the  question  to  describe  the  indignation  of  Mon- 
sieur Flute,  on  hearing  this  complaint.  At  first  he 
turned  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow — then  arose 
from  his  seat,  eyed  his  rebellious  subject  from  head 
to  foot,  and  tried  to  give  vent  to  his  passion  in  a 
stream  of  words ;  but,  finding  the  eflfort  vain,  he 
promptly  kicked  him  out  of  the  room,  and  com- 
manded  him  from   his  presence   forever!     John, 


164  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

however,  is  a  prudent  fellow,  and  knows  the  value 
of  a  good  place  and  high  wages,  or,  to  use  his 
own  phrase,  "which  side  his  bread  is  buttered" 
— so  he  concluded  to  retain  his  place,  in  defiance 
of  the  laugh  and  the  kicking,  and  still  remains 
in  his  former  service,  and  is  still  followed  by  that 
everlasting  dog.  Now,  young is  a  nui- 
sance, and  so  are  his  servants,  and  so  are  SiW  private 
servants  at  public  hotels.  During  meals,  they  are 
always  in  the  w^ay.  You  are  liable  to  mistake  them 
for  the  regular  waiters  of  the  house,  and  issue  your 
orders  accordingly.  These  they  refuse  to  obey,  of 
course.  This  is  provoking.  Then  they  seize  upon 
all  the  choice  dishes  on  the  table,  to  convey  them 
to  their  masters,  who  sit  gormandizing  while  your 
plate  is  empty,  and  the  dinner  is  getting  cold.  This 
is  monstrous.  Then  the  man  with  a  servant  some- 
times gives  himself  airs  towards  the  man  without  a 
servant.  This  is  intolerable.  I  have  heard  of  two 
duels  on  account  of  private  servants,  and  therefore  I 
repeat,  they  are  a  nuisance  in  a  moral  point  of  view, 
and  ousrht  to  be  abated. 


There  is  a  knot  of  politicians — the  "  great  here- 
after" and  his  distinguished  colleagues,  whom  I 
must  not  mention,  for  fear  of  entering  the  dreaded 
arena  of  politics — near  them  are  descendants  of 
Carroll,  Clinton,  Tompkins,  and  other  renowned 
men, 

"  Whose  names  are  with  their  country's  woven  ;" 

and  the  room  is  filling  with  beauties,   belles  and 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  165 

beaux  of  all  descriptions.  The  gentleman  in  a  drab 
coat,  is  quite  a  famous  fellow  here — a  member  of 
the  temperance  societies — temperate  in  every  thing 
but  water,  of  which  he  drinks  twenty  tumblers 
every  morning  before  breakfast  at  the  congress 
spring,  and  has  done  so  for  the  last  six  summers. 
He  is  a  firm  believer  in  its  efficacy — delivers  long 
orations  on  the  subject  to  any  person  who  will  listen 
to  him — pulls  every  new  comer  by  the  button,  as 
soon  as  he  enters  the  premises,  and  is  known  and 
avoided  by  the  name  of  the  "  Water  King."  That 
little  girl  in  black,  who  snaps  her  fingers  at  the 
slender  buck  in  whiskers,  has  refused  six  offers  of 
marriage  within  the  last  twelve  days.  She  is  cer- 
tainly a  bewitching  creature,  and  often  puts  me  in 
mind  of  Clara  Fisher  in  the  Country  Girl. 


Ah,  ha  !  my  little  Frenchman  !  That  fellow  is  a 
character.  I  will  tell  you  a  story  about  him.  I 
stopped  at  West  Point,  not  long  since,  and  found 
the  hotel  crowded  with  visitors.  It  was  late  in  the 
evening  when  I  arrived,  and  being  almost  worn  out 
with  the  fatigue  of  my  journey,  for  I  had  been  the 
inmate  of  stages,  railroad-cars,  and  canal-boats, 
without  closing  my  eyes  for  the  last  two  days,  I  re- 
paired, with  all  convenient  haste,  to  the  solitary 
couch  that  had  been  assigned  me  in  the  basement- 
story,  in  the  hope  of  passing  a  few  comfortable 
hours  in  the  "  arms  of  Morpheus ;"  but  one  glance 
at  the  "  blue  chamber  below,''  convinced  me  of  the 
utter  folly  of  any  such  expectation.  I  found  it  nearly 


166  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

crammed  with  my  fellow-lodgers,  who,  if  I  might 
judge  from  the  melancholy  display  of  hats,  boots, 
socks,  and  other  articles  of  wearing  apparel,  scat- 
tered over  the  floor,  in  most  "  admired  disorder,"  had 
evidently  retired  with  unbecoming  eagerness  to  se- 
cure their  places  to  themselves,  and  thereby  guard 
them  against  the  possibility  of  intrusion  from  others, 
doubtless  believing,  that  in  this,  as  well  as  similar 
cases,  possession  is  nine  points  in  the  law.  As  the 
apartment  w^as  very  confined,  and  all  the  inhabit- 
ants wide  awake,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  spend 
an  hour  or  two  in  the  open  air  before  going  to  bed, 
and  was  about  to  retire  for  that  purpose,  when  a 
voice  called,  '•'  If  you  do  not  w^ish  to  lose  your  berth, 
you  had  better  turn  in."  Observing  that  nearly  all 
the  cots,  sofas,  settees,  chairs,  etc.,  were  occupied, 
and  hearing  that  several  of  my  fellow-passengers 
were  sleeping  on  the  house  top  and  in  the  halls,  I 
deemed  it  prudent  to  follow^  the  advice  just  given  to 
me,  so  at  once  commenced  disrobing,  and  was  soon 
stowed  away  in  a  snug  corner,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  I  found  myself  gradually  and  imperceptibly 
sinking  under  the  power  of  the  gentle  god.  I  began 
to  congratulate  myself — to  commiserate  the  unhap- 
py condition  of  my  less  fortunate  companions,  and 
to  bid  good  night  to  all  my  cares,  when  that  short, 
thin,  merry  httle  Frenchman  came  dancing  into 
the  room,  and,  after  cutting  a  pigeon-wing  or  two, 
humming  a  passage  from  a  favorite  opera,  and  skip- 
ping once  or  twice  around  the  vacant  beds,  sat  him- 
self upon  the  most  commodious,  with  the  exclama- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  157 

tion,  "  Ah  ha  !  I  find  him — this  is  him — number 
ten,  magnifique  !  Now  I  shall  get  some  little  sleeps 
at  last."'  Again  humming  a  part  of  a  tune,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  prepare  himself  for  bed.  After  divesting 
himself  of  his  apparel,  and  carefully  depositing  his 
trinkets  and  watch  under  his  pillow,  he  fastened  a 
red  bandanna  handkerchief  around  his  head,  and 
slid  beneath  the  counterpane,  as  gay  and  lively  as 
a  cricket.  "  It  is  superb,"  he  once  more  exclaimed 
aloud ;  "  I  have  not  had  some  rest  for  six  dozen  days, 
certaine7nent — and  now  I  shall  have  some  little 
sleeps.  But,  waiter,"  bawled  he,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting himself.  John  came  at  the  call.  "  What 
is  it  o'clock,  eh  ?" 

"  Nearly  ten,  sir.'* 

"  What  time  de  boat  arrive  ?" 

"  About  two." 

"  When  he  do  come,  you  shall  Vv^ake  me  some 
little  minute  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  shall  get  some  of  de  champaign  and 
oysters  all  ready  for  my  suppare?" 

"  Very  well,  sir.  You  may  depend  upon  me,  sir," 
said  John,  as  he  shut  the  door,  and  made  his  exit. 

"  Ah,  tr^^s  hien^  and  now  for  de  little  sleeps."  Ut- 
tering which,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  pillow, 
and,  in  a  few  seconds,  was  in  a  delightful  doze. 

The  foregoing  manoeuvres  and  conversation  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  all,  and  aroused  me  com- 
pletely. 

"D n   that   Frenchman,"   growled   a    bluff 


168  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

old  fellow  next  him,  as  he  tinned  on  the  other  side, 
and  went  to  sleep. 

Most  of  the  other  gentlemen,  however,  raised 
their  heads  for  a  moment,  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
and  then  deposited  them  as  before,  in  silent  resig- 
nation. But  one  individual,  with  more  nerves  than 
fortitude,  bounced  out  of  bed,  dressed  himself  in  a 
passion,  swore  there  was  no  such  thing  as  sleeping 
there,  and  went  out  of  the  room  in  a  huff.  This 
exploit  had  an  electric  effect  upon  the  melancholy 
spectators,  and  a  general  laugh,  which  awoke  all 
the  basement  story,  was  the  result.  For  some  min- 
utes afterward  the  merriment  ^vas  truly  appalhng. 
Jokes,  mingled  with  execrations,  were  heard  in 
every  direction,  and  the  uproar  soon  became  uni- 
versal. Silence,  however,  was  at  length  restored ; 
but  all  symptoms  of  repose  had  vanished  with  the 
delusion  that  gave  them  birth.  The  poor  French- 
man, however,  whose  slumbers  had  been  sadly  bro- 
ken by  the  nervous  man,  had  turned  himself  up- 
side down,  and  had  actually  gone  to  sleep  once 
more  !  He  began  to  breathe  hard,  and,  finally,  to 
snore — and  such  a  snore  ! — it  was  enough  to  have 
awakened  the  dead  !  There  was  no  sucli  thing  as 
standing  that.  The  equanimity  of  his  immediate 
neighbour — a  drowsy  fellow,  who,  on  first  lying 
down,  said  he  was  resolved  to  "sleep  in  spite  of 
thunder" — was  the  first  to  give  way.  He  sprang 
bolt  upright,  hastily  clapt  both  hands  over  his  ears, 
and  called  out,  at  the  top  of  his  compass,  for  the 
Frenchman  to   discontinue   "  that   diabolical  and 


SKETCHES 'FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  169 

dreadful  noise."  Up  jumped  the  red  nightcap,  rub- 
bing its  eyes  in  mute  astonishment.  After  liearing 
the  heavy  charge  against  it,  with  "  a  countenance 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  and  making  every 
apology  in  its  power  for  the  unintentional  outrage 
it  had  committed,  down  it  sunk  once  more  upon  the 
pillow,  and  glided  away  into  the  land  of  Nod.  But 
new  annoyances  awaited  my  poor  Frenchman  ;  for 
scarcely  had  this  event  happened,  when  the  dooi 
was  flung  open,  and  in  came  a  gentleman  from  Ca- 
hawba,  with  a  fierce-looking  broad-brimmed  hat 
upon  his  pericranium,  that  attracted  general  atten- 
tion, and  struck  awe  and  consternation  to  the  hearts 
of  all  beholders.  He  straddled  himself  into  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  thrust  both  hands  into  his 
breeches  pocket,  pressed  his  lips  firmly  together, 
and  cast  his  eyes  deliberately  around  the  apartment, 
with  the  expression  of  one  who  intended  to  insist 
upon  his  rights.  "Which  is  number  ten?"  he  de- 
manded, in  a  tone  which  startled  all  the  tenants  of 
the  basement  story.  "  Ah,  I  perceive !"  continued 
he,  approaching  the  Frenchman,  and  laying  vio- 
lent hands  upon  him.  "  There's  some  mistake 
here.  A  man  in  my  bed,  hey  ?  Well,  let  us  see 
what  he's  made  of.  Look  here,  stranger,  you're  in 
the  wrong  box  !  You've  tumbled  into  my  bed — so 
you  must  shift  your  quarters."  Who  shall  depict 
the  Frenchman's  countenance,  as  he  slowly  raised 
his  head,  half  opened  his  drooping  organs  of  vision 
and  took  an  oblique  sc[uirit  at  the  gentleman  from 
Cahawba  !     "You  are  in  the  wrong  bed,"  repeated 

VOL.  I.  15 


170  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

he  of  the  hat — "  number  ten  is  my  property  ;  yon- 
der is  yours,  so  have  the  pohteness  just  to  hop  out." 
The  Frenchman  was  resigned  to  his  fate,  and  gath- 
ering himself  together,  transported  his  mortal  re- 
mains to  the  vacant  bed,  without  the  slightest  re- 
sistance, and  in  eloquent  silence.     It  was  very  evi- 
dent to  him,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us,  that  there  was 
no  withstanding   the  persuasions  of  his  new  ac- 
quaintance, who  had  a  fist  like  a  mallet,  and  who 
swore  that  he  always  carried  loaded  pistols  in  his 
pocket,  to  be  ready  for  any  emergency.     The  in- 
habitants of  the  basement  would  have  screamed 
outright  this  time,  but  for  prudential  considerations, 
for  the  gentleman  from  Cahawba  realized  the  de- 
scription of  the  "  determined  dog,"  mentioned  in  the 
comedy,  who  "lived  next  door  to  a  churchyard, 
killed  a  man  a  day,  and  buried  his  own  dead.'* 
Was  this,  then,  a  man  to  be  trifled  with?  Certainly 
not.     Better  to  cram  the  sheets  down  your  throat, 
and  run  the  risk  of  suffocation  from  suppressed 
laughter,  than  to  encounter  the  displeasure  of  a 
person  who  wears  such  a  hat.     They  are  always 
to  be  avoided. 

But  to  return  to  the  Frenchman.  He  Avas  no 
sooner  in  his  new  resting-place,  than  John  came  to 
inform  him  that  his  champaign  and  oysters  were 
ready.  Like  one  in  a  dream  he  arose,  sat  upon  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  slowly  dressed  himself,  without 
a  single  murmur  at  his  great  disappointment.  He 
had  hardly  finished,  when  the  steamboat  bell  sound- 
ed among  the  highlands,  and  he  received  the  grati- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  171 

fyin^  intelligence,  that  in  consequence  of  the  time 
he  had  lost  in  dressing,  he  had  none  left  to  eat  his 
supper — and  that,  if  he  did  not  hurry,  he  would  be 
too  late  for  the  boat !  At  this,  he  arose — yawned — 
stretched  his  person  out  at  full  length,  and,  with  the 
ejaculation — "I  shall  get  some  little  sleeps  nevare" 
— bid  us  good-night,  and  slowly  took  his  leave. 


LETTER  III. 


Saratoga,  August,  1833. 

Early  rising,  active  exercise,  country  air,  and  the 
congress  spring  have  done,  are  doing,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  do  wonders  for  invalids.  They  are  all 
excellent  in  their  way  ;  but  to  produce  a  beneficial 
effect  upon  weak  nerves  and  debiUtated  constitutions, 
they  must  be  enjoyed  in  moderation.  Nothing  is 
more  true  than  that  all  excess  is  hurtful ;  and  no- 
thing, one  would  suppose,  is  more  self-evident :  yet 
many  people  in  delicate  health  go  to  Saratoga  un- 
der the  impression,  it  would  seem,  that  the  more 
water  they  drink,  the  faster  they  will  get  well. — 
Some  of  the  visitors  are  in  the  habit  of  swallowing 
fifteen,  twenty,  thirty,  and  even  forty  glasses  every 
morning  before  breakfast !  The  result  of  such  im- 
prudence can,  of  course,  be  easily  foreseen.  Instead 
of  getting  the  better  of  their  several  complaints,  they 
daily  grow  worse,  and  are  not  unfrequently  compel- 
led to  abandon  the  use  of  the  waters  altogether,  for 


172  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

want  of  proper  caution  in  the  first  instance.     The 
resident    physician  at  the  springs,  as  every  body 
knowsj  is  an  able  practitioner,  a  man  of  science, 
and  a  finished  gentleman.     We  were  seated  one 
morning,  during  the  present  season,  in  his  study? 
when  an  individual  knocked  at  the  door,  and  im- 
mediately gained  admittance.     He  was  a  large,  fat, 
unwieldly  piece  of  humanity  from  the  south,  with 
a  face  like  the  full  moon  just  rising,  and  had  the 
appearance  of  one  "  who  could  kill  an  ox  with  his 
fist,  and  pick  his  teeth  with  its  horns."     But,  alas  ! 
appearances  are  deceitful ;  my  man  mountain  was 
sadly  out  of  repair,  and  could  do  no  such  thing.     A 
chronic  affection  of  his  stomach  embittered  all  his 
days,  and  his  doctor  had  sent  him  to  the  springs  for 
relief.     Every  other  remedy  had  been  tried,  but  to 
little  or  no  purpose.     The  waters  then  were  his  only 
reliance,  his  last  resort.  If  they  failed  him,  his  case 
was  hopeless — his  disease  incurable.     Accordingly, 
on  his  arrival,  he  had  taken  to  hard  drink,  like  a 
brave  fellow :  but  finding,  to  his  unutterable  astonish- 
ment and  confusion,  after  a  whole  week's  melan- 
choly experience,  that  the  mineral  fluids  had  done 
him  an  infinite  deal  of  mischief,  and  not  the  least 
discernible  good,  he  had  now  repaired  to  the  apart- 
ment of  the  resident  physician,  entirely  out  of  hu- 
mor with  the  waters,  himself,  and  all  the  world 
l)esides,  and  in  utter  despair.     No  wonder,  then, 
that  he  was  angry,  or  that  he  should  frown  indig- 
nantly on  coming  into  the  presence  of  the  learned 
professor  of  the  heahng  art.      Placing  his  caue 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  173 

against  the  wall,  in  a  firm  and  decided  manner, 
and  tossing  his  hat  upon  the  table  with  a  peculiar 
emphasis,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair  with  a 
thundering  whack  ;  then  taking  a  blue  and  white 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  wiped  the  perspi- 
ration from  his  face,  crossed  his  legs,  folded  his 
arms,  compressed  his  lips,  and  eyed  the  doctor  from 
head  to  foot,  with  mingled  feelings  of  scorn  and 
indignation.  "So,"  said  he.  at  length,  "you're  a 
doctor,  are  you  ?"  "x\t  your  service,  sir.  May  I  ask 
who  you  are?"'  "Oh,  certainly,  I  am  a  man  that  has 
come  six  hundred  miles,  like  a  blockhead,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  advice  of  a  quack-doctor,  to  drink 
your  infernal  waters — and  they've  made  me  worse — 
that's  who  I  am.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  that, 
hey?"  "  Why,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  his  usual 
good-nature,  and  without  allowing  himself  to  be 
disturbed,  in  the  least,  by  the  abrupt  deportment  of 
his  new  acquaintance,  "  why,  my  friend,  that  I  am 
very  sorry  for  it.  But  what's  the  matter  with  you?'' 
'■  Oh,  sir,  I'm  in  pain  all  over."  "  Indeed:  what  are 
your  symptoms?"  "I've  every  symptom  you  ever 
heard  of."  "That's  bad."  "Bad!"  said  the  man 
with  a  stomach,  "  it's  infernal — it's  diabolical — it 
will  be  the  death  of  me  !"  "In  pain  all  over,  you 
say  ?"  "  Yes,  all  over,  I  tell  you  !"  "  Any  pain  in 
your  foot  ?"  "  Well,  I  don't  exactly  know  as  to  that," 
said  the  gentleman  from  the  south,  evidently  draw- 
ing in  his  horns.  "  If  you  had  any  there,  would  you 
not  be  hkely  to  know  it  ?"  pursued  the  doctor,  mild- 
ly. "  Well,  I  suppose  I  should."  "  Then,  vou  have 
15* 


174  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

no  pain  in  your  foot  ?"'  "  Wh}^,  no."  "  Then,  what 
do  you  mean  by  pain  all  over  ?"  The  patient  would 
have  explained ;  but  the  doctor  went  on  with  his 
professional  cross-examination.  "  And  how  many 
tumblers  of  water  do  you  drink  a-day  ?"'  "  Why,  I 
began  moderately.  When  I  first  came  I  only  took 
eight ;  but  I  have  increased  the  quantity  every  day, 
and,  this  morning  I  got  down  thirty-two."  "  Thir- 
ty-two ?■'  repeated  the  doctor,  coolly,  but  with  evi- 
dent surprise.     "Only  thirty-two?     Then  permit 

me,  my  friend,  to  remark  you  have  not  taken " 

The  man  from  the  south  interrupted  him — he 
would  hear  no  more — he  thought  the  doctor  was 
going  to  tell  him  he  had  not  taken  half  enough — 
and  the  idea  made  him  shudder.  "Now  stop,  doc- 
tor, stop,  I  beseech  you.  That's  all  very  true,  what 
you're  going  to  say.  I  know  it.  If  I  must  die,  I 
must;  but  I  can't  drink  more  than  thirty-two  tum- 
blers, any  way  under  heavens — nor  will  I  attempt 
it,  happen  what  may."  It  is  unnecessary  to  give 
the  remainder  of  the  dialogue.  The  reader  has  suf- 
ficient to  show  him  with  what  views  some  people 
visit  the  springs,  and  how  httle  they  know  of  the 
properties  and  effects  of  the  waters.  This,  however, 
is  only  one  of  a  thousand  similar  instances.  The 
invalid  in  question,  for  such  he  really  was,  notwith- 
standing his  enormous  bulk  and  jolly  round  physi- 
ognomy,^was  soon  convinced  of  the  absolute  absur- 
dity of  the  course  he  had  been  pursuing ;  and,  after 
listening  to  a  little  salutary  advice,  which,  we  make 
no  doubt,  will  be  of  service  to  him  during  the  re- 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SPRINGS.  175 

niaiiider  of  his  natural  life,  took  his  leave,  with  the 
resolution  to  become  a  more  temperate  man  in  fu- 
ture. We  saw  him  again,  about  a  fortnight  after 
the  conversation  here  recorded,  and  were  gratified 
to  learn,  that,  by  following  a  few  simple  directions, 
his  "  pain  all  over'  had  entirely  disappeared,  and 
that  he  was  a  new  creature,  or,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, '•  as  good  as  new."  He  looked  the  picture 
of  perfect  health,  and  said  he  felt  as  well  as  he  look- 
ed. "  Then  you  have  changed  your  opinion  of  the 
waters?"  -Entirely.  They  have  acted  upon  me 
like  a  charm.  But  no  man  should  touch  them,  un- 
til he  has  first  received  the  advice  and  directions  of 
some  competent  physician."  "  True,  and  this  sim- 
ple fact  it  would  do  no  harm  for  all  to  bear  in  mind 
who  visit  the  springs." 


A  LAMENT. 


BV  MISS  FANNY  KEMBLE. 


Gentlemen— 1  shall  be  most  happy  if  the  following  lines  meet  your  ap- 
probation, and  answer  your  purpose. 

I  iiave  ctiosen  tliein  because  they  were  pronipted  by  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful water-courses  which,  in  my  opinion,  can  be  found  even  in  this  world 
of  lovely  and  glorious  rivers,  and  I  suppose  it  may  be  more  agreeable  to 
Americans  to  read  the  very  sincere,  if  not  the  very  adequate  homage  wiiich 
a  stranger  pays  to  their  romantic  scenery,  than  descriptions  which  have 
no  interest  to  recommend  them. 

If  you  could  have  seen  me  at  the  moment  of  inditing  these  lines,  1  think 
you  would  have  been  amused.  1  had  purposed  riding  out  to  the  Wissihic- 
con,  an  Indian  name  for  a  beautiful  streanj  near  Philadelphia,  signifying, 
I  am  told,  the  ''  pleasant  water."  I  had  just  explored  enough  of  its  beau- 
ties on  the  preceding  day  to  be  most  anxious  to  return  ;  but  circumstances 
occurred  to  prevent  my  doing  so.  and  the  following  lament  bears  wit- 
ness to  the  little  philosophy  with  wiiich  I  endured  the  disappointment. 
The  obstacles  to  my  ride,  however,  were  removed— I  revisited  several 
times  my  favorite  haunt,  and  have  only  to  hope  that  some  portion  of  tny 
tlelight  and  happiness  while  there,  and  of  my  vivid  impression  of  its  love- 
liness may  have  found  its  way  into  my  verses. 

I  know  not  what  is  the  usual  number  of  minutes  allotted  to  an  im- 
promptu, but  this  was  written  in  less  than  half  an  liour;  and  now  that  it 
is  going  to  put  forth  its  defects  to  the  world,  1  think  this  may  appear,  per- 
haps, to  you  some  reason  for  them. 

Once  more,  I  hope  my  lines  may  answer  your  purpose,  and  wish  they 
were  better  worth  you  acceptance.  Pray  believe  me,  gentlemen,  yours, 
very  sincerely,  Frances  Anne  Kemble. 

To  the  Editors  of  the  Mirror. 


The  water-fall  is  calling  me, 

With  its  merry  gleesome  flow  ; 
And  the  green  boughs  are  beck'ning  me 

To  where  the  wild-fl.owers  grow  : 
I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go. 
To  where  the  sunny  waters  flow, 
To  where  the  wild-wood  flowers  blow  ; 


A  LAMENT.  I77 

I  must  stay  here 

In  prison  drear, — 
Oh  !  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on — 
Would  God  that  thou  wert  done  ! 

The  busy  mill-wheel,  round  and  round 
Goes  turning,  with  its  reckless  sound  ; 
And  o'er  the  dam  the  waters  flow 
Into  the  foaming  stream  below, 
And  deep,  and  dark,  away  they  glide 
To  meet  the  broad,  bright  river's  tide  ; 
And  all  the  way 
They  murmuring  say 

"Oh,  child  !  why  art  thou  far  awayl 

Come  back  into  the  sun,  and  stray 
Upon  our  mossy  side." 

I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go. 
To  where  the  gold,  green  waters  run, 
All  glittering  in  the  morning's  sun, 

And  leap  from  oft'  the  dam  below 

Into  a  whirl  of  boiling  snow. 

Laughing  and  shouting  as  they  go  ; 
I  must  stay  here 
In  prison  drear  ; 

Oh  !  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on, — 

Would  God  that  thou  wert  done ! 

The  soft  spring-wind  goes  passing  by 

Into  the  forests  wide  and  cool, 
The  clouds  go  trooping  through  the  sky 

To  look  down  on  some  glassy  pool ; 
The  sunshine  makes  the  world  rejoice^ 
And  all  of  them,  with  gentle  voice. 
Call  me  away 
With  them  to  stay 
The  blessed,  live  long,  summer's  day. 


178  A  LAMENT. 

I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go, 

Where  the  sweet-breathing  spring-winds  blow 

Nor  where  the  silver  clouds  go  by 

Across  the  holy,  deep,  blue  sky  ; 

Nor  where  the  sunshine,  warm  and  bright. 

Comes  down,  like  a  still  shower  of  light ; 

I  must  stay  here 

In  prison  drear : 
Oh  !  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on, 
Would  God  that  thou  wert  gone  ! 

Oh,  that  I  were  a  thing  with  wings ! 
A  bird  that  in  a  May-hedge  sings  ! 
A  lonely  heather-bell  that  swings 

Upon  some  wild  hill-side  ! 
Or  e'en  a  silly,  senseless  stone, 
With  soft,  thick,  starry  moss  o'ergrown, 

Round  which  the  waters  glide ! 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH. 


BY  THEODORE  S.   FAY. 


The  young  Lord  D.  yawned.     Why  did  the 
young  lord  yawn?     He   had  recently  come  into 
ten  thousand  a  year.      His  home  was  a  palace 
His    sisters    were   angels.     His    cousin    was — in 
love    with    him.     He,    himself,    w^as    an   Apollo. 
His    horses    might    have   drawn   the    chariot  of 
Phoebus,  but  in  their  journey  around  the  globe, 
would  never  have  crossed   above    grounds  more 
Eden-hke  than  his.     Around  him  w^ere   streams, 
lawns,  groves,  and  fountains.     He  could  hunt,  fish, 
ride,  read,  flirt,  sleep,  swim,  drink,  muse,  write,  or 
lounge.     All  the  appliances  of  affluence  were  at  his 
conuiiand.     The  young  Lord  D.  w^as  the  admira- 
tion and  envy  of  all  the  country.     The  young  Lord 
D.'s  step  sent  a  palpitating  flutter  through  many  a 
lovely  bosom.     His  smile  awakened  many  a  dream 
of  bliss  and  w^ealth.     The  Lady  S., — that  queenly 
woman,  with  her  majestic  bearing,  and  her  train  of 
dying  adorers,  grew  lovelier  and  livelier  beneath 
the  spell  of  his  smile ;  and  even  Ellen  B., — the  mo- 
dest, beautiful  creature,  with  her  large,  timid,  ten- 
der blue  eyes,  and  her  pouting  red  lips — that  rose- 
bud— sighed  audibly,  only  the  day  before,  when  he 


180 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH. 


left  the  room — and  yet — and  yet — the  youn^  Lord 
D.  yawned. 

It  was  a-rich  still  hour.  The  afternoon  sunlight 
overspread  all  nature.  Earth,  sky,  lake,  and  air 
were  full  of  its  dying  glory,  as  it  streamed  into  the 
apartment  where  they  were  sitting,  through  the  fo- 
hage  of  a  magnificent  oak,  and  the  caressing  ten- 
drils of  a  profuse  vine,  that  half  buried  the  veran- 
dah beneath  its  heavy  masses  of  foliage. 

''  I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  the  sleepy  lord. 

His  cousin  Rosalie  sighed. 

'•  The  package  of  papers  from  London  is  full  of 
news,  and "  murmured  her  sweet  voice  timidly* 

'•  I  hate  new^s." 

'•  The  poetry  in  the  New  Monthly  is  — '' 

"  You  set  my  teeth  on  edge.  I  have  had  a  sur- 
feit of  poetry." 

'•  Ellen  B.  is  to  spend  the  day  with  us,  to-morrow." 

Rosalie  lifted  her  hazel  eyes  full  upon  his  face. 

'•  Ellen  B.  V  drawled  the  youth,  "  she  is  a  child, 
a  pretty  child.     I  shall  ride  over  to  Lord  A's." 

Rosalie's  face  betrayed  that  a  mountain  was  off 
her  heart. 

"  Lord  A.  starts  for  Italy  in  a  few  weeks,"  said 
Rosalie. 

"  Happy  dog !" 

"  He  will  be  delighted  with  Rome  and  Naples." 

"Rome  and  Naples,"  echoed  D.,  in  a  musing 
voice. 

"  Italy  is  a  dehghtful  heavenly  spot,"  continued 
his  cousin,  anxious  to  lead  him  into  conversation. 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH.  Igl 

"  So  I'm  lold,"  said  Lord  D.,  abstractedly. 

"  It  is  the  garden  of  the  world,"  rejoined  Rosalie. 

Lord  D.  opened  his  e3^es.  He  evidently  was  jiisi 
struck  with  an  idea.  Young  lords  with  ten  thou- 
sand a  year  are  not  often  troubled  with  ideas.  He 
sprang  from  his  seat.  He  paced  the  apartment 
twice.  His  countenance  glowed.  His  eyes  spar- 
kled. 

"Rose—." 

"  Cousin  — ." 

What  a  beautiful  break.  Rose  trembled  to  the 
heart.     Could  it  be  possible  that  he  was . 

He  took  her  hand.  He  kissed  it,  eagerly,  ear- 
nestly, and  enthusiastically. 

She  blushed  and  turned  away  her  face  in  grace- 
ful confusion. 

'^Rosel" 

"  Dear,  dear  cousin  !"' — 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Charles !— " 

"  To-morrow !" 

'•  Heavens !" 

"  I  will  start  for  Italy." 


Ocean  !  Superb — endless — sublime,  rolUng,  tum- 
bling, dashing,  heaving,  foaming — cceluni  undlquc 
et  undique  pontiis.  Lord  D.  gazed  around.  The 
white  cliffs  of  Dover  were  fading  in  the  distance. 
Farewell,  England.  It  is  a  sweet  melancholy,  thi^ 
bidding  adieu  to  a  mass— a  speck  in  the  horizon — 

YoL.  L  16 


182  AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH. 

a  mere  cloud,  yet  which  contains  in  its  airy  and 
dim  outHne  all  that  you  ever  knew  of  existence. 

"Noble  England!"  ejaculated  Lord  D.,  "and 
dear  mother — Ellen  B. — pretty  fawn — Rose  too — 
sweet  pretty  dear  Rose — what  could  mean  those 
glittering  drops  that  hung  upon  her  lashes  when  I 
said  adieu  ?  Can  it  be  that  ? — pshaw — I  am  a  cox- 
comb. What !  Rose  ?  the  little  sunshiny  Rose — 
the  cheerful  philososopher — the  logical — the  studi- 
ous— the — the— the —  !" 

Alas  !  alas !  What  are  logic,  study,  cheerfulness, 
philosophy,  sunshine,  to  a  warm  hearted  girl  of 
twenty — in  love? 

Lord  D.  went  below. 


Italy  is  a  paradise.  Surely  Adam  looked  on  such 
skies,  such  rivers,  such  woods,  such  mountains, 
such  fields.  How  lavish,  how  bright,  how  rich  is 
every  thing  around.  Lord  D.  guided  his  horse  up 
a  mountain  near  Rome.  The  sun  had  just  set : 
the  warm  heavens  stretched  above  him  perfectly 
unclouded  ;  what  a  time  to  muse  !  what  a  place  ! 
The  young  nobleman  fell  into  a  reverie,  which,  the 
next  moment,  was  broken  by  a  shout  of  terror — 
the  clashing  of  arms — a  pistol  shot,  and  a  groan. 
He  flew  to  the  spot.  A  youth  of  twenty  lay  at  the 
root  of  a  tall  tree,  weltering  in  his  blood.  The  as- 
sassin, terrified  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger,  fled. 

"  I  die,"  murmured  the  youth,  with  ashy  lips. 

"  Can  I  aid  you?"  asked  Lord  D.,  thriUing  with 
horror  and  compassion. 


r 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH.  ]83 

"  Take  this  box.  It  contains  jewels,  and  a  secret^ 
which  I  would  not  have  revealed  for  the  world. 
Carry  it  to  England,  to  the  Duke  of  R — .  Open  it 
not,  no  matter  what  happens.  Swear  never  to  re- 
veal to  any  human  being  that  you  possess  it — 
swear.'* 

Lord  D.  hesitated. 

'•  My  life-blood  ebbs  away  apace.  Speak,  oh 
speak,  and  bless  a  dying  man — swear." 

"  I  swear." 

"  Enough.  I  thank  you — hide  it  in  your  bosom. 

God   bless  you — my England never   see — 

home — again — never,  nev — ." 

The  full  round  moon,  beautifully  bright,  went 
solemnly  up  the  azure  track  of  sky. 

Lord  D.  dashed  a  tear  from  his  eye,  as  he  gazed 
on  the  pallid  features  of  the  youth,  who  stretched 
himself  out  in  the  last  shuddering  agony  and  con- 
vulsion of  death.  He  placed  his  hand  upon  the 
stranger's  bosom.  The  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 
No  longer  the  crimson  gore  flowed  from  the  wound. 
The  light  foam  stood  on  his  pale  lips. 

"  And  he  has  a  mother,"  said  the  chilled  nobleman 
— "  and  a  once  happy  home.  For  their  sake,  as 
well  as  his,  his  wishes  shall  be  obeyed." 

The  tread  of  horses'  feet  came  to  his  ear,  and 
shouts  and  confused  voices. 

Lord  D,  thought  the  fugitive  ruffian  was  return- 
ing with  more  of  the  gang. 

^'  Shall  I  fly  like  a  coward  ?"  was  his  first  thought ; 


184  AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH. 

Ijut  again,  he  said.  "  why  should  I  waste  my  Ufe 
upon  a  set  of  banditti?" 

He  sprang  to  his  saddle,  in  his  huny,  leaving  be- 
hind hini  a  kerchief — dashed  the  rowels  into  the 
Hanks  of  the  snorting  steed,  and  was  presently  lost 
in  the  winding  paths  of  the  forest. 


The  midnight  moon  was  shining  silently  into 
the  ajiartment,  as  Lord  D.'s  eyes  closed  in  sleep, 
after  having  lain  for  some  time  lost  in  thought 
upon  his  couch.  His  senses  gradually  melted  into 
dreams. 

"  Ah,  Rosalie.     Dear  Rosalie.'^ 

The  maiden  suddenly  grasped  his  throat  with 
the  ferocity  of  a  fiend,  when — hah  !  no  Rosalie — 
but  the  iron  gripe  of  a  muscular  arm  dragged  him 
from  the  bed,  and  shook  his  idle  dreams  to" air. 

"  Bind  the  villain  !"  said  a  hoarse  voice. 

"  Away,  away  to  the  duke's  !" 

Bewildered,  indignant,  alarmed,  the  astonished 
lord  found  himself  bound,  and  borne  to  a  carriage 
— the  beautiful  and  soft  fragments  of  Italian  scene- 
ly  flew  by  the  coach  windows. 


If  you  would  freeze  the  heart  of  an  English- 
man, and  yet  suffocate  him  wnth  anger,  thrust 
him  into  a  dungeon.  Lord  D.  never  was  so  unce- 
remoniously assisted  to  a  change  of  location.  A 
black-browed,  dark-complexioned,  mustachio-lipped 
soldier  hurled  him  down  a  flight  of  broken  steps, 
and  threw  after  him  a  bundle  of  clothes. 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH.  185 

"  By  St.  George,  ntiy  friend,  if  I  had  you  on  the 
side  of  a  green  Enghsh  hill,  I  would  make  your 
brains  and  bones  acquainted  with  an  oaken  cud- 
gel.    The  uncivilized  knave." 

He  lay  for  hours  on  a  little  straw.  By-and-by 
some  one  came  in  with  a  lamp. 

"  Pray,  friend,  where  am  I  ?" 

The  stranger  loosened  his  cord,  and  motioned 
him  to  put  on  his  clothes.  He  did  so — unable  to 
repress  the  occasional  explosion  of  an  honest,  heart- 
felt execration.  When  his  toilet  was  completed, 
his  guide  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him 
through  a  long  corridor,  till,  lo  !  a  blaze  of  sun- 
shiny dayhght  dazzled  his  eyes. 


"You  are  accused  of  murder,"  said  the  duke,  in 
French. 

"  Merciful  Providence  !"  ejaculated  D. 

"  Your  victim  was  found  weltering  in  his  blood, 
at  your  feet.  You  left  this  kerchief  on  his  body.  It 
bears  your  name.  By  your  hand  he  fell.  You 
have  been  traced  to  your  lodgings.  You  must 
die.'' 


A  witness  rushed  forward  to  bear  testimony  in 
favor  of  the  prisoner.  Lord  D.  could  not  be  the 
perpetrator  of  such  a  crime.  He  was  a  nobleman 
of  honor  and  wealth. 

''  Where  are  his  letters  V 

He  had  brought  none. 

16* 


186  AX  OUTLINE  SKETCH. 

"  What  is  the  result  of  the  search  which  I  or- 
dered to  be  made  at  his  lodgings  V 

^'  This  box,  my  lord  duke,  an — "" 

The  box  was  opened.  It  contained  a  set  of  su- 
perb jewels,  the  miniature  of  the  murdered  youth, 
and  of  a  fair  creature,  probably  his  mistress. 

Lord  D.  started. 

'•'  By  heavens,  it  is  Rosalie  !  I  am  thunderstruck." 

"  Enough,"  said  the  duke,  ''  guilt  is  written  in 
every  feature.  Wretch,  murderer !  To  the  block 
with  him.  To-morrow  at  daybreak  let  his  doom 
be  executed.  Nay,  sir,  lower  that  high  bearing, 
those  fiery  and  flashing  eyes,  that  haughty  and 
commanding  frown.  Not  thus  should  you  meet 
your  Creator.'' 


Night,  deep  night.  How  silent !  How  sublime  ! 
The  fated  lord  lay  watching  the  sky,  through  the 
iron  grating  of  his  cell. 

"  Ah,  flash  on,  myriads  of  overhanging  Avorlds — 
ye  suns,  whose  blaze  is  quenched  by  immeasurable 
distance.  To-morrow  just  so  with  your  calm,  bright, 
everlasting  faces,  ye  wnll  look  down  upon  my 
grave.  Jupiter,  brilliant  orb  !  How  lustrous  !  How 
wonderful !  Ha  !  the  north  star — ever  constant ! 
Axis  on  which  revolves  this  stupendous,  heavenly 
globe.  How  often  at  home  I  have  watched  thy 
beams,  with  Rosalie  on  my  arm.  Rosahe,  dear 
Rosalie—" 

"  I  come  to  save  you,"  said  a  soft,  sweet  voice. 

"  What !     Boy — who  art  thou  ?     Why  dost — " 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH.  X37 

The  young  stranger  took  off  his  cap. 

"  No — yes  !  That  forehead — those  eyes — en- 
chanting girl — angel — " 

"  Hush !''  said  Rosalie,  laying  her  finger  upon 
her  hp. 


Ocean — again — the  deep,  magnificent  ocean — 
and  life  and  freedom. 

"  Blow,  grateful  breeze — on,  on,  over  the  wash- 
ing billows,  light-winged  bark.  Ha  !  land  ahead  ! 
England  !     Rosalie,  my  girl,  see — " 

Again  on  her  lashes  tears  stood  glittering. 

How  different  from  those  that — 


Onward,  like  the  wind,  revolve  the  rattling 
wheels.  The  setting  sun  reveals  the  tall  groves, 
the  great  oak,  the  lawns,  the  meadows,  the  foun- 
tains. 

"My  mother!" 

"My  son!" 

"  Friends  !" 

A  package  from  the  duke. 

"  The  murderer  of is  discovered,  and  has 

paid  the  forfeit  of  his  crimes.  Will  Lord  D.  again 
visit  Italy  ?" 

"  Ay,  with  my  wife — with  Rosalie." 

"  And  with  letters  and  a  good  character^'  said 
Rosalie,  archly. 


FORGETFULNESS. 


BY  MISS  ELIZABETH  S.  BOGART. 


"We  parted — friendship's  dream  had  cast 

Deep  interest  o'er  the  brief  farewell, 
And  left  upon  the  shadowy  past 

Full  many  a  thought  on  which  to  dwell. 
Such  thoughts  as  come  in  early  youth. 

And  live  in  fellowship  with  hope ; 
Robed  in  the  brilliant  hues  of  truth, 

Unfitted  with  the  world  to  cope. 

We  parted — he  went  o'er  the  sea. 

And  deeper  solitude  was  mine ; 
Yet  there  remained  in  memory, 

For  feeling,  still  a  sacred  shrine. 
And  thought  and  hope  were  offered  up 

Till  their  ethereal  essence  fled, 
And  disappointment,  from  the  cup, 

Its  dark  libations  poured,  instead. 

We  parted — 'twas  an  idle  dream 

That  thus  we  e'er  should  meet  again ; 
For  who  that  knew  man's  heart,  would  deem 

That  it  could  long  unchanged  remain. 
He  sought  a  foreign  clime,  and  learned 

Another  language,  which  expressed 
To  strangers  the  rich  thoughts  that  burned 

With  unquenched  power  within  his  breast. 


FORGETFULXESS.  XgQ 

And  soon  he  better  loved  to  speak 

In  those  new  accents  than  his  own ; 
His  native  tongue  seemed  cold  and  weak, 

To  breathe  the  wakened  passions'  tone. 
He  wandered  far,  and  lingered  long, 

And  drank  so  deep  of  Lethe's  stream, 
That  each  new  feeling  grew  more  strong. 

And  all  the  past  was  like  a  dream. 

We  met — a  few  glad  words  were  spoken, 

A  few  kind  glances  were  exchanged  ; 
But  friendship's  first  romance  was  broken, 

His  had  been  from  me  estranged. 
I  felt  it  all — we  met  no  more — 

My  heart  was  true,  but  it  was  proud  ; 
Life's  early  confidence  was  o'er. 

And  hope  had  set  beneath  a  cloud. 

"We  met  no  more: — for  neither  sought 

To  reunite  the  severed  chain 
Of  social  intercourse  ;  for  nought 

Could  join  its  parted  links  again. 
Too  much  of  the  wide  world  had  been 

Between  us  for  too  long  a  time  ; 
And  he  had  looked  on  many  a  scene, 

The  beautiful  and  the  sublime. 

And  he  had  themes  on  which  to  dwell. 

And  memories  that  were  not  mine, 
Which  formed  a  separating  spell. 

And  drew  a  mystic  boundary  hne. 
His  thoughts  were  wanderers — and  the  things 

Which  brought  back  friendship's  joys  to  me, 
To  him  were  but  the  spirit's  wings 

Which  bore  him  o'er  the  distant  sea. 

For  he  had  seen  the  evening  star 

Glancing  its  rays  o'er  ocean's  waves, 
And  marked  the  moonbeams  from  afar, 

Lighting  the  Grecian  heroes'  graves. 


190  FORGETFULNESS. 

And  he  had  gazed  on  trees  and  flowers 

Beneath  Italia's  sunny  skies, 
And  listened,  in  fair  ladies'  bowers. 

To  genius'  words  and  beauty's  sighs. 

His  steps  had  echoed  through  the  halls 

Of  grandeur,  long  left  desolate  ; 
And  he  had  climbed  the  crumbling  walls, 

Or  op'd  perforce  the  hingeless  gate  ; 
And  mused  o'er  many  an  ancient  pile, 

In  ruin  still  magnificent. 
Whose  histories  could  the  hours  beguile 

With  dreams,  before  to  fancy  lent. 

Such  recollections  come  to  him, 

With  moon,  and  stars,  and  summer  flowers : 
To  me  they  bring  the  shadows  dim 

Of  earlier  and  of  happier  hours. 
I  would  those  shadows  darker  fell — 

For  life,  with  its  best  powers  to  bless, 
Has  but  few  memories  loved  as  well, 

Or  welcome  as  forge tf nines s. 


BENEFACTORS. 


BY     JOHX     HOWARD     PAYNE. 


The  home  of  Lopez  was  only  a  cottage ;  but  it 
was  situated  beneath  the  beautiful  sky  of  Andaki- 
sia,  in  the  httle  bishopric  of  Jaen,  at  the  flowery 
foot  of  Sierra  Morena.  His  daughter,  Inesilla,  his 
only  child — his  gentle,  his  lovely,  his  darling  Ine- 
silla — dwelt  with  hirn  there.  He  regretted  riches 
only  on  one  account.  His  loss  of  them  must  inter- 
rupt the  education  of  his  daughter. 

"  Inesilla,"  said  he  to  her,  "  I  have  often  rendered 
services ;  but  no  one  comes  to  render  services  to 
me.  There  is  no  such  thing  in  the  world  as  gene- 
rosity." 

"  The  numbers  of  the  ungrateful  would  seem  to 
prove  the  contrary,"  replied  Inesilla.  '•  Ingratitude 
would  be  less  common,  if  we  knew  how  to  appro- 
priate our  benefactions;  but  the  rich  and  powerful, 
hemmed  in  as  they  are  by  mercenaries,  parasites, 
and  adventurers,  are  intercepted  by  this  mob  of 
slaves,  from  conveying  to  virtuous  indigence  the 
noble  kindness  which  may  relieve  without  degra- 
ding. We  should  know  the  characters  of  those 
whom  ice  oblige^  before  ice  do  them  services.     We 


192  BENEFACTORS. 

listen  to  our  lieaits,  and  are  deceived.  You  have 
yourself  done  this,  and  more  than  once." 

"  I  own  it.     I  own  it.     1  was  in  the  wrong." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  clap  of 
thunder.  A  rapid  storm  darkened  the  horizon. 
Lopez  thought  no  more  of  the  ungrateful.  All  re- 
solutions of  future  caution  vanished.  He  flew  to 
tiing  open  the  large  gate  of  his  cottage  yard,  that 
the  wayfarer  might  be  sheltered  beneath  his  cart- 
shed  from  the  tempest,  whose  roar  was  now  redou- 
bled by  the  mountain  echoes. 

A  brilliant  carriage,  drawn  by  six  mules,  at  once 
drove  in.  Don  Fernando  descended  from  it ;  had 
his  servants  and  his  mules  placed  under  the  shed, 
and  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  the  cottage  of 
Lopez.  Inesilla  opened  it,  and  Don  Fernando 
paused  Avith  w^onder,  to  meet  beneath  the  lowly 
thatch  a  form  so  sylph-like  and  a  face  so  refined. 
The  courtly  bearing  of  Lopez  seemed  to  create  no 
less  surprise ;  his  astonishment,  the  earnestness  of 
his  questions,  the  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in  every 
thing  relating  to  the  old  man,  stimulated  Lopez 
to  tell  the  story  of  his  misfortunes,  ending  with  the 
moral  which  his  daughter  had  deduced  from  them^ 

Fernando  heard  him  with  intense  attention. 

'•  By  the  sword  of  the  cid !"  cried  he,  "  that 
daughter  of  thine  is  a  philosopher  !  '  We  should 
know  the  character  of  those  whom  we  oblige,  be- 
fore we  do  them  services ;'  and  I  bless  the  storm,'' 
added  he,  tears  starting  to  his  eyes,  "  which  has  ac- 
quainted me  with  thee  and  thine  ;  but  we  should 


BENEFACTORS.  193 

also  bear  in  miiul  anoiher  truth  of  which  thy  daugh- 
ter's philosophy  seems  not  to  be  aware.  We  should 
also  know  the  characters  of  those  by  whom  we  are 
obliged,  before  we  let  them  do  us  services." 

The  words  of  Don  Fernando  sank  deep  into  the 
heart  of  Lopez.  He  felt  he  had  at  last  found  one 
with  whom  he  wished  he  could  exchange  situa- 
tions, merely  that  he  could  render  so  worthy  a  man 
a  service, 

Don  Fernando  seemed  to  be  animated  with  a  si- 
milar yearning  towards  poor  Lopez. 

"'  But,  Lopez,''  added  he,  "  it  is  not  from  words 
that  characters  are  to  be  learned,  ^^e  must  look 
to  actions.  From  these  I  would  teach  you  mine. 
Lopez,  I  am  rich,  and  I  am  not  heartless.  You 
have  bestowed  on  me  the  only  kindness  in  your 
power.  Do  not  be  offended.  I  must  not  be  num- 
bered among  the  ungrateful.  Your  fortune  must 
be  restored.  Deign,  till  we  can  bring  that  about, 
to  let  me  be  3^our  banker." 

'•  There  is  nothing  I  have  to  wish  foi:,  on  my  own 
account,"  said  Lopez;  "but  my  dear  girl  there, 
though  still  in  the  bloom  of  early  youth,  has  for  a 
long  while  been  interrupted  in  her  education.  Poor 
darling,  she  has  no  associates  of  her  ow^n  age  and 
sex  about  her — no  one  to  supply  the  place  of  a  mo- 
ther. The  warmest  affection  of  a  father  never  can 
make  up  for  wants  like  these." 

"I  have  an  aunt,"  replied  Fernando,  "  who  inha- 
bits Cazorla  with  her  two  daughters,  both  much 
about  the  age  of  your  Inesilla.     In  this  family  are 

Vol.  L  17 


194  BENEFACTORS. 

blended  inexhaustible  amiableness,  enlightened  re- 
ligion, dee])  and  varied  acquirements.  Deprived  of 
the  gifts  of  fortune,  they  have  nothing  to  live  on 
but  a  moderate  pension,  of  which  their  virtues,  the 
duties  of  humanity,  and  the  claims  of  relationship, 
concur  in  rendering  it  imperative  on  me  to  force 
their  acceptance.  Cazorla  is  situated  not  far  hence  ; 
just  on  the  skirts  of  the  Vega — a  site  of  surpassing 
beauty.  Go,  yourself,  in  my  name.  Find  my 
noble  relation.     Confide  to  her  your  Inesilla." 

Lopez,  scarcely  hearing  him  out,  caught  his 
hands,  and  bathed  them  with  tears  of  gratitude. 

It  was  not  long  before  Inesilla  was  conducted,  by 
her  father,  to  the  aunt  of  Fernando,  from  whom,  and 
from  her  daughters,  she  received  a  most  aflfection- 
ate  welcome ;  while  Lopez,  disabused  of  his  preju- 
dices against  the  world,  regained  his  cottage,  satis- 
fied w^ith  himself  and  others,  and  silently  and  seri- 
ously resolving  never  more  to  think  slightingly  of 
human  nature,  and  go  often  and  see  his  daughter. 

One  day  he  was  pondering  on  his  recollections  of 
Fernando,  on  his  delicate  liberality,  and  on  his  pro- 
found proverb,  when,  casting  his  eyes  unconscious- 
ly around,  they  rested  upon  a  lowly  tree,  where  a 
poor  little  orphan-dove,  left  alone  ere  the  down  had 
enough  thickened  to  shield  it  from  the  evening 
chill,  forsaken,  as  it  was,  by  all  nature,  filled  its  for- 
lorn nest  with  feeble  wailings.  At  that  moment, 
from  the  mighty  summit  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  a 
bird  of  prey — (it  was  a  vulture!) — outspreading  his 
immense  wings — pointed  his  flight  downwards  to- 


BENEFACTORS.  I95 

ward  the  lamenting  dove,  and  for  ^onie  time  hung 
hovering  above  the  tree  which  held  her  cradle.  Lo- 
pez was  instantly  on  the  alert  for  means  to  rescue 
the  helpless  httle  victim,  when  he  thought  he  could 
perceive  that  at  the  sight  of  the  vulture,  the  infant 
dove  ceased  her  moan,  fluttered  joyously,  and 
stretched  towards  him  her  open  beak.  In  truth, 
he  really  beheld,  ere  long,  the  terrible  bird,  gently 
descending,  charged  with  a  precious  booty,  toward 
his  hahy  proteg-ee^  and  lavishing  on  her  the  choicest 
nutriment,  with  a  devotedness  unknown  to  vulgar 
vultures. 

"  Most  wonderful  !^'  cried  the  good  Lopez.  "  How 
unjust  I  was  !  How  blind  !  I  refused  to  believe  in 
beneficence.     I  find  it  even  among  vultures  !" 

Lopez  could  not  grow  weary  of  this  touching 
sight.  Day  after  day  he  returned  to  watch  it.  It 
opened  to  him  sources  of  exquisite  and  inexhausti- 
ble meditation.  He  was  enraptured  to  see  innocence 
strengthened  under  the  wing  of  power — the  weak 
succored  by  the  strong  ;  and  the  transition  from  the 
nest  of  the  dove  to  his  gentle  Inesilla,  in  happiness 
at  Cazorla,  protected  by  one  of  the  rich  and  power- 
ful, was  so  natural,  that  he  returned  home,  blessing 
Don  Fernando  and  the  vulture. 

Already  had  the  light  down  on  the  little  dove 
deepened  into  silvery  feathers  ;  already,  from  branch 
to  branch,  had  she  essayed  her  timid  flight  upon 
her  native  tree ;  already  could  her  beak,  hardened 
and  sharpened,  grasp  its  nourishment  Avith  ease. 

One  day  the  vulture  appeared  with  the  accus- 
tomed provender.     He  eyed  his  adopted   intently. 


196  BENEFACTORS. 

The  dove  that  day  looked  peculiarly  innocent  and 
beautiful.  Her  form  was  round  and  full.  Her  air 
delightfully  engaging.  The  vulture  paused.  He 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  exult  that  he  had  reared  a 
creature  so  fixir.  On  a  sudden  he  pounced  into  the 
nest.     In  an  instant  the  dove  was  devoured. 

Lopez  witnessed  this  :  he  stood  amazed  and  puz- 
zled, like  Gargantua,  on  the  death  of  his  wife  Ba- 
de bee. 

"  Great  Powers  !"  exclaimed  Lopez,  "  what  do  I 
behold  !'' 

The  good  man  was  surprised  that  a  vulture 
should  have  eaten  a  dove,  when  only  the  reverse 
would  have  been  the  wonder. 

The  former  association  in  his  mind  between  hi? 
daughter  and  the  dove  rushed  back  upon  him.  He 
was  almost  mad. 

"  My  Inesilla,  w//  dove,"  shrieked  he  to  himself, 
"  is  also  under  the  protection  of  a  vulture — a  great 
lord — a  man  of  prey — hence  !  hence  !"' 

He  ran.  He  llew.  He  repeated  to  himself  a 
hundred  times  upon  the  wa}^ — 

"  We  should  kiioio  the  character  of  those  hy 
whom  we  are  obliged^  before  loe  let  them  do  us  ser- 
vices P' 

And  with  this  upon  his  lip  he  arrived,  breath- 
less, at  Cazorla.  He  darted  to  the  retreat  where  he 
had  left  his  daughter — 

Merciful  Providence  !- • 

Reader !  I  see  3^ou  are  almost  as  much  pleased 
as  Inesilla  was,  tliat  Lopez  saved  his  daughter. 


THE  MINIATURE. 


Y     GEORGE     P.     MORRIS. 


William  was  holding  in  his  hand 

The  hkeness  of  his  wife — 
Fresh,  as  if  touched  by  fairy  wand, 

With  beauty,  grace,  and  hfe. 
He  almost  thought  it  spoke  : 

He  gazed  upon  the  treasure  still, 
Absorbed,  delighted,  and  amazed, 

To  view  the  artist's  skill. 

"  This  picture  is  yourself,  dear  Jane, 

'Tis  drawn  to  nature  true  ; 
I've  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

It  is  so  much  like  you." 
"And  did  it  kiss  you  back,  my  dearl' 

"Why — no — my  love,"  said  he. 
"  Then,  William,  it  is  very  clear, 

'Tis  not  at  all  like  mc  .'" 


17^ 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL, 

OR  THE  ORIGIX  OF    THE  BAREr's  DOZEN. 

[Translated  from  an  ancient  Dutch  MS  ] 
BV  JAMES  K.   PAULDING. 


Little  Brom  Boomptie,  or  Boss  Boomptie,  as  he 
was  commonly  called  by  his  apprentices  and  neigh- 
bors, was  the  first  man  that  ever  baked  new-year 
cakes  in  the  good  city  of  New-Amsterdam.  It  is 
generally  supposed  that  he  was  the  inventor  of  those 
excellent  and  respectable  articles.  However  this 
may  be,  he  lived  and  prospered  in  the  little  Dutch 
house  in  William-street,  called,  time  out  of  mind, 
Knickerbocker  Hall,  just  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
good  town  of  New-Amsterdam. 

Boomptie  was  a  fat  comfortable  creature,  with  a 
capital  pair  of  old-foshioned  legs ;  a  full,  round, 
good-natured  face ;  a  corporation  like  unto  one  of 
his  plump  loaves  ;  and  as  much  honesty  as  a  Turk- 
ish baker,  who  lives  in  the  fear  of  having  his  ears 
nailed  to  his  own  door  for  retailing  bad  bread.  He 
wore  a  low-crowned,  broad-brimmed  beaver  ;  a  gray 
bearskin^  cloth  coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeches,  and 
gray  woollen  stockings,  summer  and  winter,  all  the 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  ]  99 

year  round.  The  only  language  he  spoke,  under- 
stood, or  had  the  least  res}3ect  for,  was  Dutch 
— and  the  only  books  he  ever  read  or  owned,  were 
a  Dutch  Bible,  with  silver  clasps  and  hinges,  and  a 
Dutch  history  of  the  Duke  of  Alva's  bloody  wars 
in  the  low  countries.  Boss  Boomptie  was  a  pious 
man,  of  simple  habits  and  simple  character  ;  a  be 
liever  in  "demonology  and  witchcraft,"  and  as 
much  afraid  of  sjwoks  as  the  mother  that  bred  him. 
It  ran  in  the  family  to  be  bewitched,  and  for  three 
generations  the  Boompties  had  been  very  much 
pestered  with  supernatural  visitations.  But  for  all 
this  they  continued  to  prosper  in  the  world,  inso- 
much tliat  Boss  Boomptie  daily  added  a  piece  of 
wampum  or  two  to  his  strong  box.  He  was  blessed 
with  a  good  wife,  who  saved  the  very  parings  of  her 
nails,  and  three  plump  boys,  after  whom  he  model- 
led his  gingerbread  babies,  and  w^ho  were  every 
Sunday  zealously  instructed  never  to  pass  a  pin 
without  picking  it  up  and  bringing  it  home  to  their 
mother. 

It  was  new-year's  eve,  in  the  year  1655,  and  the 
good  city  of  New-Amsterdam,  then  under  the  special 
patronage  of  the  blessed  St.  Nicholas,  was  as  jovial 
and  wanton  as  hot  spiced  rum,  and  long  abstinence 
from  fun  and  frohc,  could  make  it.  It  is  worth  while 
to  live  soberly  and  mind  our  business  all  the  rest 
of  the  year,  if  it  be  only  to  enjoy  the  holidays  at  the 
end  with  a  true  zest.  St.  Nicholas — thrice  blessed 
soul !  was  riding  up  one  chimney  and  down  ano- 
ther, like  a  locomotive  engine,  in  his  little  one-horse 


fV 


200  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

wagon,  distributing  cakes  to  the  good  boys,  and 
whips  to  the  bad  ones ;  and  the  laugh  of  the  good 
city,  which  had  been  pent  up  all  the  year,  now 
burst  forth  with  an  explosion  that  echoed  even  unto 
Breuckelen  and  Communipaw. 

Boss  Boomptie,  who  never  forgot  the  main 
chance,  and  knew  from  experience  that  new- year's 
eve  was  a  shrewd  time  for  selling  cakes,  joined  profit 
and  pleasure  on  this  occasion.  He  was  one  minute 
in  his  shop,  dealing  out  cakes  to  his  customers,  and 
the  next  laughing,  and  tippling,  and  jigging,  and 
frisking  it  with  his  wife  and  children  in  the  little 
back  room,  the  door  of  which  had  a  pane  of  glass 
that  commanded  a  free  view  of  the  shop.  Nobody, 
that  is,  no  genuine  disciple  of  jolly  St.  Nicholas, 
ever  went  to  bed  on  new-year's  eve.  The  Dutch 
are  eminently  a  sober  discreet  folk ;  but  somehow 
or  other,  no  people  frolick  so  like  the  very  dickens 
when  they  are  once  let  loose,  as  your  very  sober 
and  discreet  bodies. 

By  twelve  o'clock  the  spicy  beverage,  sacred  to 
holidays  at  that  time,  began  to  mount  up  into  Boss 
Boomptie's  head,  and  he  was  vociferating  a  Dutch 
ditty  in  praise  of  St.  Nicholas  with  marvellous  dis- 
cordance, when  just  as  the  old  clock  in  one  corner 
of  the  room  struck  the  hour  that  ushers  in  the  new- 
year,  a  loud  knock  was  heard  on  the  counter,  which 
roused  the  dormant  spirit  of  trade  within  his  bosom. 
He  went  into  the  shop,  where  he  found  a  httle  ugly 
old  thing  of  a  woman,  with  a  sharp  chin,  resting  on 
a  crooked  black  stick,  which  had  been  buint  in  the 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  201 

fire  and  then  polished  ;  two  high  sharp  cheek-bones ; 
two  sharp  black  eyes  ;  skinny  lips,  and  a  most  dia- 
boUcal  pair  of  leather  spectacles  on  a  nose  ten 
times  sharper  than  her  chin. 

"I  want  a  dozen  new-year  cookies."  screamed 
she,  in  a  voice  sharper  than  her  nose. 

"  Yel,  den,  you  needn't  speak  so  loud,"  replied 
Boss  Boomptie,  whose  ear  being  just  then  attuned 
to  the  melody  of  his  own  song,  was  somewhat  out- 
raged by  tbis  shrill  salutation. 

"  I  want  a  dozen  new-year  cookies,"  screamed  she 
again,  ten  times  louder  and  shriller  than  ever. 

"Duyvel — I  ant  teafden,''  grumbled  the  worthy 
man,  as  he  proceeded  to  count  out  the  cakes,  whicli 
the  other  very  deliberately  counted  after  him. 

''  I  want  a  dozen,"  screamed  the  little  woman  ; 
"  liere  is  only  twelve." 

"  Vel  den,  and  wbat  the  duyvel  is  twelf  put  a  do- 
zen V  said  Boomptie. 

"I  tell  you  I  want  one  more,"  screamed  she  in 
a  voice  that  roused  Mrs.  Boomptie  in  the  back  room, 
who  came  and  peeped  tlu-ough  the  pane  of  glass, 
as  she  often  did  when  she  heard  the  boss  talking  to 
the  ladies. 

Boss  Boomptie  waxed  wroth,  for  he  had  a  reason- 
able quantity  of  hot  spiced  rum  in  his  noddle,  which 
predisposed  a  man  to  valor. 

"  Vel  den,"  said  he,  "  you  may  co  to  de  duyvel 
and  get  anoder,  for  you  won't  get  it  here." 

Boomptie  was  not  a  stingy  man ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  very  generous  to  the  pretty  young 


202  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

damsels  who  came  to  buy  cakes,  and  often  gave 
two  or  three  extra  for  a  smack,  which  made  Mrs. 
Boomptie  peevish  sometimes,  and  caused  her  to 
watch  at  the  little  pane  of  glass  when  she  ought 
to  have  been  minding  her  business  like  an  honest 
woman. 

But  this  old  hag  was  as  ugly  as  sin,  and  the  little 
baker  never  in  his  whole  life  could  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  be  generous  to  an  ugly  woman,  old  or 
young. 

"  In  my  country  they  always  give  thirteen  to  the 
dozen,"  screamed  the  ugly  old  woman  in  the  leather 
spectacles. 

"i\.nd  where  de  duyvel  is  your  gountry  ?"  asked 
Boomptie. 

"  It  is  nobody's  business,'^  screeched  the  old  wo- 
man. ''  But  will  you  give  me  another  cake,  once 
for  all  r 

'•  Not  if  it  would  save  me  and  all  my  chineration 
from  peing  pewitched  and  pedemonologized  time 
out  of  mind,"  cried  he  in  a  great  passion. 

AVhat  put  it  into  his  head  to  talk  in  this  way  I  don't 
know :  but  he  might  better  have  held  his  tongue. 
The  old  woman  gave  him  three  stivers  for  his 
cakes,  and  went  awa}-,  grumbling  something  about 
"  living  to  repent  it,"  which  Boss  Boomptie  didn't 
understand  or  care  a  fig  about.  He  was  chock  full 
of  Dutch  courage,  and  defied  all  the  ugly  old  wo- 
men in  Christendom.  He  put  his  three  stivers  in 
the  till  and  shut  up  his  shop,  determined  to  enjoy 
the  rest  of  the  night  without  further  molestation. 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  203 

While  he  was  sitting  smoking  his  pipe,  and  now 
and  then  sipping  his  beveragej  all  at  once  he  heard 
a  terrible  jingling  of  money  in  his  shop,  whereupon 
he  thought  some  local  caitiff  was  busy  with  his  lit- 
tle till.  Accordingly,  priming  himself  with  another 
reinforcement  of  Dutch  courage,  he  took  a  pine 
knot,  for  he  was  too  economical  to  burn  candles  at 
that  late  hour,  and  proceeded  to  investigate.  His 
money  was  all  safe,  and  the  till  appeared  not  to  have 
been  disturbed. 

"  Duyvel,"  quoth  the  little  baker  man,  "  I  pelieve 
mine  vroiiw  and  I  have  bote  cot  a  zinging  in  our 
heads." 

He  had  hardly  turned  his  back  when  the  same 
jingling  began  again,  so  much  to  the  surprise  of 
Boss  Boomptie,  that  had  it  not  been  for  his  invinci- 
ble Dutch  courage,  he  would,  as  it  were,  have  been 
a  little  frightened.  But  he  was  not  in  the  least ;  and 
again  went  and  unlocked  the  till,  when  what  was 
his  astonishment  to  see  the  three  diabolical  stivers, 
received  from  the  old  woman,  dancing  and  kicking 
up  a  dust  among  the  coppers  and  wampum,  with 
w^onderful  agihty  ! 

"HagginsVanSwoschagin!"  exclaimed  he,  sorely 
perplexed,  "  de  old  duyvel  has  cot  into  dat  old  sin- 
ner's stivers,  I  tink."  He  had  a  great  mind  to  throw 
them  away,  but  he  thought  it  a  pity  to  waste  so 
much  money  ;  so  he  kept  them  locked  up  all  night, 
enjoining  them  to  good  behavior,  with  a  design  to 
spend  them  next  day  in  another  jolhfication.  But 
the  next  day  they  were  gone,  and  yo  was  the  broom- 


204  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

stick  with  which  it  was  the  custom  to  sweep  out 
the  shop  every  morning.  Some  of  the  neighbors 
coming  home  late  the  night  before,  on  being  in- 
formed of  the  "  abduction"  of  the  broomstick,  de- 
posed and  said,  that  they  had  seen  an  old  woman, 
riding  through  the  air  upon  just  such  another,  right 
over  the  top  of  tlie  little  bake-house ;  whereat  Boss 
Boomptie,  putting  these  odds  and  ends  together,  did 
tremble  in  his  heart,  and  he  wished  to  himself  that 
he  had  given  the  ugly  old  woman  thirteen  to  the 
dozen. 

Nothing  particular  came  to  pass  the  next  day, 
except  that  now  and  then  the  little  Boompties  com- 
plained of  having  pins  stuck  in  their  backs,  and 
that  their  cookies  were  snatched  away  by  some  one 
unknown.  On  examination  it  was  found  that  no 
marks  of  the  pins  were  to  be  seen  ;  and  as  to  the 
cookies,  the  old  black  woman  of  the  kitchen  de- 
clared she  saw  an  invisible  hand,  just  as  one  of  the 
children  lost  his  commodity, 

"  Den  I  am  pewitched,  sure  enough  !"  cried 
Boomptie,  in  despair;  for  he  had  too  much  of  "  de- 
monology  and  witchcraft"  in  the  family  not  to  know 
when  he  saw  them,  just  as  well  as  he  did  his  own 
face  in  the  Collect. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  year,  the  'prentice  boys 
all  returned  to  their  business,  and  Boomptie  once 
more  solaced  himself  with  the  baking  of  the  staff 
of  life.  The  reader  must  know  that  it  is  the  custom 
of  bakers  to  knead  a  great  batch  at  a  time,  in  a 
mighty  bread-tray,  into  which  they  throw  two  or 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  205 

three  little  apprentice-boys  to  paddle  about,  like 
ducks  ill  a  mill-pond,  whereby  it  was  speedily  amal- 
gamated, and  set  to  rising  in  due  time.  When  the 
little  caitiffs  began  their  gambols  in  this  matter, 
they  one  and  all  stuck  fast  in  the  dough,  as  thougli 
it  had  been  so  much  pitch,  and  to  the  utter  dismay 
of  honest  Boomptie,  behold,  the  whole  batch  rose  up 
in  a  mighty  mass,  and  the  boys  sticking  fast  on 
the  top  of  it ! 

"  Der  dapperheed  updragon !"  exclaimed  little 
Boomptie,  as  he  witnessed  this  catastrophe ;  '-  de 
duyvel  ish  got  into  de  yeast  dis  time,  I  tink." 

The  bread  continued  to  rise  till  it  lifted  the  roof 
off  the  bake-house,  with  the  little  'prentice-boys  on 
the  top,  and  the  bread-tray  following  after.  Boss 
Boomptie  and  his  wife  watched  this  wonderful 
rising  of  the  bread  in  dismay,  and  in  proof  of  the 
poor  woman  being  bewitched,  it  was  afterwards 
recollected  that  she  uttered  not  a  single  word  on 
this  extraordinary  occasion.  The  bread  rose  and 
rose,  until  it  finally  disappeared,  boys  and  all,  be- 
hind the  Jersey  hills.  If  such  things  had  been 
known  at  that  time,  it  would  have  been  taken 
for  a  balloon  ;  as  it  was,  the  people  of  Bergen  and 
Communipaw  thought  it  was  a  waterspout. 

Little  Boss  Boomptie  was  quite  disconsolate  at  the 
loss  of  his  bread  and  his  'prentice-boys,  whom  he 
expected  never  to  see  again.  However,  he  was  a 
stirring  body,  and  set  himself  to  work  to  prepare 
another  batch,  seeing  his  customers  must  be  sup- 
plied in  spite  of  '•  witchcraft  or  demonology."  To 
Vol.  I.  18 


206  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

guard  against  such  another  rebeUious  rising,  he  de- 
termined to  go  tlnough  the  process  down  in  the 
cellar,  and  turn  his  bread-tray  upside  down.  The 
bread,  instead  of  rising,  began  to  sink  into  the  earth 
so  fast,  that  Boss  Boomptie  had  just  time  to  jump 
off  before  it  entirely  disappeared  in  tlie  ground, 
which  opened  and  shut  just  like  a  snuff-box. 

'•'  Myt  de  stamme  van  dam  !"  exclaimed  he,  out 
of  breath,  "  my  pread  rises  downwards  dis  time,  I 
tink.     My  customers  must  go  without  to-day." 

By  and  by  his  customers  came  for  hot  rolls  and 
muffins ;  but  some  of  them  had  gone  up,  and  some 
down,  as  little  Boss  Boomptie  related  after  the  man- 
ner just  described.  What  is  very  remarkable,  no- 
body believed  him  ;  and  doubtless  if  there  had  been 
any  rival  baker  in  New-Amsterdam,  the  boss  would 
have  lost  all  his  customers.  Among  those  that 
called  on  this  occasion,  w^as  the  ugly  old  w^oman 
with  the  sharp  eyes,  nose,  chin,  voice,  and  leather 
spectacles. 

^'I  w^anta  dozen  new-year  cookies!"  screamed 
she  as  before. 

"  De  geude  Schiyver  Torgouldigit  beest !"  mut- 
tered he,  as  he  counted  out  the  twelve  cakes. 

"I  want  one  moie  !"  screamed  she. 

"  Den  you  may  co  to  de  duy  vel  and  kit  it,  I  say, 
for  not  anoder  shall  you  have  here,  I  tell  you." 

So  the  old  woman  took  her  twelve  cakes,  and 
went  out,  grumbling  as  before.  All  the  time  she 
staid,  Boomptie's  old  dog.  Avho  followed  him  wdier- 
ever  he  w^ent;  growled  and  whined,  as  it  were,  to 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.        "  207 

himself,  and  seemed  mightily  relieved  when  she 
went  away.  That  very  night,  as  the  little  baker 
was  going  to  see  one  of  his  old  neighbors  at  the 
Maiden* s  Valley <,  then  a  little  way  out  of  town, 
walking,  as  he  always  did,  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  every  now  and  then  he  felt  something  as  cold 
as  death  against  them,  which  he  could  never  ac* 
count  for,  seeing  tliere  was  not  a  soul  with  him  but 
his  old  dog.  Moreover,  ]\Irs.  Boomptie,  having 
bought  half  a  pound  of  tea  at  a  grocery-store,  and 
put  it  into  her  pocket,  did  feel  a  twitching  and  jerk- 
ing of  the  paper  of  tea  in  her  pocket  every  step  she 
went.  The  faster  she  ran,  the  quicker  and  stronger 
was  the  twitching  and  jerking,  so  that  when  the 
good  woman  got  home  she  was  nigh  fainting  away. 
On  her  recovery  she  took  courage,  and  pulled  the 
tea  out  of  her  pocket,  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  when, 
behold,  it  began  to  move  by  fits  and  starts,  jumped 
oft'  the  table,  hopped  out  of  doors,  all  alone  by  itself, 
and  jigged  away  to  the  place  from  whence  it  came. 
The  grocer  brought  it  back  again,  but  JMadame 
Boomptie  looked  upon  the  whole  as  a  judgment  for 
her  extravagance,  in  laying  out  so  much  money  for 
tea,  and  refused  to  receive  it  again.  The  grocer 
assured  her  that  the  strange  capers  of  the  bundle 
were  owing  to  his  having  forgot  to  cut  the  twine 
with  which  he  had  tied  it ;  but  the  good  woman 
looked  upon  this,  as  an  ingenious  subterfuge,  and 
would  take  nothing  but  her  money.  When  the 
iuisband  and  wife  came  to  compare  notes,  they  both 
agreed  they  were  certainly  bewitched.     Had  there 


208  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

been  any  doubt  of  the  matter,  subsequent  events 
would  soon  have  put  it  to  rest. 

That  very  night  Mrs.  Boomptie  was  taken  after 
a  strange  way.  Sometimes  she  would  laugh  about 
nothing,  and  then  she  would  cry  about  nothing ; 
then  she  would  set  to  work  and  talk  about  nothing 
for  a  whole  hour  without  stopping,  in  a  language 
that  nobody  could  understand  ;  and  then  all  at 
once  her  tongue  would  cleave  to  the  roof  of  her 
mouth  so  ihat  it  was  impossible  to  force  it  away. 
When  this  lit  was  over,  she  would  get  up  and  dance 
double-trouble,  till  she  tired  herself  out,  when  she 
fell  asleep,  and  waked  up  quite  rational.  It  was 
particularly  noticed,  that  when  she  talked  loudest 
and  fastest,  her  lips  remained  perfectly  closed,  and 
without  motion,  or  her  mouth  wide  open,  so  that 
the  words  seemed  to  come,  from  down  her  throat. 
Her  principal  talk  was  railing  against  Dominie 
Laidlie,  the  good  pastor  of  Garden-street  church, 
whence  every  body  concluded  she  was  possessed  by 
a  devil.  Sometimes  she  got  hold  of  a  pen,  and 
though  she  had  never  learned  to  write,  would 
scratch  and  scrawl  certain  mysterious  and  diaboli- 
cal figures,  that  nobody  could  understand,  and  every 
body  said  must  mean  something. 

As  for  little  Boss  Boomptie  he  was  worse  off  than 
his  wife.  He  was  haunted  by  an  invisible  hand, 
which  played  iiim  all  sorts  of  scurvy  tricks.  Stand- 
ing one  morning  at  his  counter,  talking  to  one  of 
the  neighbors,  he  received  a  great  box  on  the  ear, 
whereat  being  exceeding  wroth,  he  returned  it  with 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  209 

such  interest  on  the  cheek  of  his  neighbor,  that  he 
laid  him  flat  on  the  floor.  His  friend  hereupon  took 
the  law  of  him,  and  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
court  that  he  had  both  hands  in  his  breeches  pock- 
ets at  the  time  Boss  Boomptie  said  he  gave  him  the 
box  on  the  ear.  The  magistrate,  not  being  able  to 
come  at  the  truth  of  the  matter,  fined  them  each 
twenty-five  guilders  for  the  use  of  the  dominie. 

A  dried  codfish  was  one  day  thrown  at  his  head, 
and  the  next  minute  liis  walking-stick  fell  to  beat- 
ing him,  though  nobody  seemed  to  have  hold  of  it. 
A  chair  danced  about  the  room,  and  at  last  lighted 
on  the  dinner-table,  and  began  to  eat  with  such  a 
good  appetite,  that  had  not  the  children  snatched 
some  of  the  dinner  away,  there  would  have  been 
none  left.  The  old  cow  one  night  jumped  over  the 
moon,  and  a  pewter  dish  ran  fairly  ofi'with  a  horn 
spoon,  \vhich  seized  a  cat  by  the  tail,  and  away 
they  all  went  together,  as  merry  as  crickets.  Some- 
times, when  Boss  Boomptie  had  money,  or  cakes, 
or  perhaps  a  loaf  of  bread  in  his  hand,  instead  of 
putting  them  in  their  proper  places,  he  would  throw 
them  into  the  fire,  in  spite  of  his  teeth,  and  then 
the  invisible  hand  would  beat  him  with  a  bag  of 
flour,  till  he  was  as  white  as  a  miller.  As  for  keep- 
ing his  accounts,  that  was  out  of  the  question ; 
whenever  he  sat  himself  down  to  write,  his  ink-horn 
was  snatched  away  by  the  invisible  hand,  and  by 
and  by  it  would  come  tumbling  down  the  chimney. 
Sometimes  an  old  dish-cloth  would  be  pinned  to 
the  skirt  of  his  coat,  and  then  a  great  diabolical 
18* 


4 

210  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

laugh  lieard  under  the  floor.  At  night  he  had  a 
pretty  time  of  it.  His  night-cap  was  torn  off  his 
headj  his  hair  pulled  out  by  handfuls,  his  face 
scratchedj  and  his  ears  pinched  as  if  with  red  hot 
pincers.  If  he  went  out  in  the  yard  at  night,  he  was 
pelted  with  brickbats,  sticks,  stones,  and  all  sorts  of 
filthy  missives  ;  and  if  he  staid  at  home,  the  ashes 
were  blown  upon  his  supper  ;  and  old  shoes,  in- 
stead of  plates,  were  seen  on  the  table.  One  of  the 
frying-pans  rang  every  night  of  itself  for  a  whole 
hour,  and  a  three-pronged  fork  stuck  itself  volunta- 
rily into  Boss  Boomptie's  back,  without  hurting  him 
in  the  least.  But  what  astonished  the  neighbors 
more  than  all,  the  little  man.  all  at  once,  took  to 
speak  in  a  barbarous  and  unknown  jargon,  which 
was  afterwards  found  out  to  be  English. 

These  matters  frightened  some  of  the  neighbors, 
and  scandalized  others,  until  at  length  poor  Boomp- 
tie's shop  was  almost  deserted.  People  were  jealous 
of  eating  his  bread,  for  fear  of  being  bewitched. 
Na)^,  more  than  one  little  urchin  complained  griev- 
ously of  horrible,  out-of-the-way  pains  in  the  sto- 
mach, after  eating  two  or  three  dozen  of  his  new- 
year  cookies. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  until  Christmas-eve 
came  round  again,  w^hen  Boss  Boomptie  was  sitting 
behind  his  counter,  which  was  wont  to  be  thronged 
with  customers  on  this  occasion,  but  was  now  quite 
deserted.  While  thinking  on  his  present  miserable 
state  and  future  prospects,  all  of  a  sudden  the  little 
ugly  old  woman,  with  a  sharp  nose,  sharp  chin, 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  211 

sharp  eyes,  sharp  voice,  and  leather  spectacles, 
again  stood  before  him,  leaning  on  her  crooked 
black  cane. 

"  De  Philistyner  Onweetende  !"  exclaimed  Boss 
Boomptie,  "  what  too  you  want  now  ?"' 

"  I  want  a  dozen  new-year  cookies  !"  screamed 
the  old  creature. 

The  little  man  counted  out  twelve  as  before. 

"  I  want  one  more  !"  screamed  she,  louder  than 
ever. 

"  Opgeblazen  tynelschildknap  !"  exclaimed  the 
boss,  in  a  rage  ;  "  den  want  will  pe  your  master." 

She  offered  him  three  stivers,  which  he  indig- 
nantly rejected,  saying, 

''  I  want  none  of  your  duyvel's  stuy vers — begone, 
Verschvikt  Huysvrouw  !" 

The  old  woman  went  her  way,  mumbling  and 
grumbling  as  usual. 

"By  Saint  Johannes  de  Dooper,"'  quoth  Boss 
Boomptie,  "  put  she's  a  peauty  !" 

That  night,  and  all  the  week  after,  the  brickbats 
dew  about  Knickerbocker  Hall  like  hail,  insomuch 
that  Boss  Boomptie  marvelled  where  they  all  came 
from,  until  one  morning,  after  a  terrible  shower  of 
bricks,  he  found,  to  his  great  grief  and  dismay,  that 
his  oven  had  disappeared  ;  next  went  the  top  of  his 
chimney  ;  and  when  that  was  gone,  these  diabolical 
sinners  began  at  the  extreme  point  of  the  gable-end, 
and  so  went  on  picking  at  the  two  edges  down- 
wards, until  they  looked  just  like  the  teeth  of  a 


212  K-XICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

saw,  as  may  be  still  seen  by  people  curious  enough 
to  look  at  the  building. 

'•'Gesprengkelde!  Gespikkelde!  onGepleckteeve!" 
cried  Boss  Boomptie,  "  put  it's  too  pad  to  have  my 
prains  peat  out  wid  my  own  brickpats." 

About  the  same  time  a  sober  respectable  cat,  that 
for  years  had  done  nothing  but  sit  purring  m  the 
chimney-corner,  all  at  once  got  the  duyvel  in  her, 
and  after  scratching  the  poor  man  half  to  death, 
jumped  out  of  the  chimney  and  disappeared.  A 
Whitehall  boatman  afterwards  saw  her  in  Butter- 
milk-channel, with  nothing  but  the  tail  left,  swim- 
ming against  the  tide  as  easy  as  kiss  your  hand. 
Poor  Mrs.  Boomptie  had  no  peace  of  her  life,  what 
with  pinchings,  stickings  of  needles,  and  talking 
without  opening  her  mouth.  But  the  climax  of  the 
malice  of  the  demon  which  beset  her  was  in  at  last 
tying  up  her  tongue,  so  that  she  could  not  speak  at 
all.  but  did  nothing  but  sit  crying  and  wringing 
her  hands  in  the  chimney-corner. 

These  carryings  on  brought  round  new-year's  eve 
again,  when  Boss  Boomptie  thought  he  would  have 
a  frolic,  "  in  spite  of  the  duyvel,"  as  he  said,  which 
saying  was,  somehow  or  other,  afterwards  applied 
to  the  creek  at  Kingsbridge.  So  he  commanded  his 
wife  to  prepare  him  a  swingeing  mug  of  hot  spiced 
rum,  to  keep  up  his  courage  against  the  assaults  of 
brickbats.  But  what  was  the  dismay  of  the  little 
man  when  he  found  that  every  time  he  put  the  be- 
verage to  his  lips  he  received  a  great  box  on  the 
ear,  the  mug  was  snatched  away  by  the  invisible 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  213 

hand,  and  every  single  drop  drunk  out  of  it  before 
it  came  to  Boss  Booniptie's  turn.  Tiien,  as  if  it  was 
an  excellent  joke,  he  heard  a  most  diabolical  laugh 
down  in  the  cellar. 

''Saint  Nicholas  and  Saint  Johannes  de  Doo- 
per!"  exclaimed  the  little  man  in  despair.  Tliis 
was  attacking  him  in  the  very  intrenchments  of 
his  heart.     It  was  worse  than  the  brickbats. 

"  Saint  Nicholas  !  Saint  Nicholas  !  what  will  be- 
come of  me — what  sal  Ich  doon,  mynheer  ?" 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  this  pathetic  appeal, 
when  there  was  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the 
chimney,  and  presently  a  little  wagon,  drawn  bj"  a 
little,  fat,  gray  'Sopus  pony,  came  trundling  into 
the  room,  loaded  with  all  sorts  of  knick-knacks.  It 
was  driven  by  a  jolly,  fat,  little  rogue  of  a  fellow, 
with  a  round  sparkling  e3'e,  and  a  mouth  which 
would  certainly  have  been  laughing  had  it  not  been 
for  a  glorious  Meerschaum  pipe,  which  would  have 
chanced  to  fall  out  in  that  case.  The  little  rascal 
had  on  a  three-corner  cocked  hat,  decked  with  gold 
lace ;  a  blue  Dutch  sort  of  a  short  pea-jacket,  red 
waistcoat,  breeks  of  the  same  color,  yellow  stockings, 
and  honest  thick-soled  shoes,  ornamented  with  a 
pair  of  skates.  Altogether  he  w^as  a  queer  figure 
— but  there  was  something  so  irresistibly  jolly  and 
good-natured  in  his  face,  that  Boss  Boomptie  knew 
him  for  the  good  Saint  Nicholas  as  soon  as  he  saw 
him. 

"  Orange  Boven  !''  cried  the  good  saint,  pulling 
off  his  cocked  hat,  and  making  a  low  bow  to  Mrs. 


214  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

Boomptie,  who  sat  tongue-tied  in   the   chimney- 
corner. 

"  Wonderdadige  Geboote  !"  said  Boss  Boomptie, 
speaking  for  his  wife,  which  made  the  good  woman 
very  angry,  that  he  should  take  the  words  out  of 
her  mouth. 

"  You  called  on  St.  Nicholas.  Here  am  I,"  quoth 
the  jolly  little  saint.  "  In  one  word — for  I  am  a 
saint  of  few  words,  and  have  my  hands  full  of  busi- 
ness to-night — in  one  word,  tell  me  what  you 
want.*' 

''  I  am  pewitched,"  quoth  Boss  Boomptie.  "  The 
duyvel  is  in  me,  my  house,  my  wife,  my  new-year 
cookies,  and  my  children.     What  shall  I  do?" 

'•'  When  you  count  a  dozen,  you  must  count  thir- 
teen," answered  the  wagon-driver,  at  the  same  time 
cracking  his  whip,  and  clattering  up  the  chimney, 
more  hke  a  little  duyvel  than  a  little  saint. 

"Der  dapperheed  updragon !"  muttered  Boss 
Boomptie.  "  When  you  count  a  dozen,  you  must 
count  dirteen  !  Twerndertigduysend  destrooper- 
gender  !  I  never  heard  of  such  counting.  By  Saint 
Johannes  de  Dooper,  but  Saint  Nicholas  is  a  great 
blockhead  !" 

Just  as  he  uttered  this  blasphemy  against  the  ex- 
cellent Saint  Nicholas,  he  saw  through  the  pane  of 
glass,  in  the  door  leading  from  the  spare  room  to 
the  shop,  the  little  ugly  old  woman,  with  the  sharp 
eyes,  sharp  nose,  sharp  chin,  sharp  voice,  and  lea- 
ther spectacles,  alighting  from  a  broomstick  at  the 
street-door. 


KNICKERBOCKER  HALL.  215 

"  Dere  is  the  duyvel's  kint  come  again,"  quoth 
he,  in  one  of  his  cross  humors,  whicli  was  aggra- 
vated by  his  getting  just  then  a  great  box  on  the 
ear  from  the  invisible  hand.  However,  lie  went 
grumbling  into  the  shop,  for  it  was  part  of  his  reli- 
gion never  to  neglect  a  customer,  let  the  occasion 
be  what  it  might. 

"  I  want  a  dozen  new-year  cookies,"  screamed 
the  old  beauty,  as  usual,  and  as  usual  Boss  Boomp- 
tie  counted  out  twelve. 

"  I  want  another  one,"  screamed  she  still  louder. 

"  Ah  hah  !"  thought  Boss  Boomptie,  doubtless 
inspired  by  the  jolly  little  caitifT,  Saint  Nicholas. 
"Ah  hah!  In  opperhoofd  en  Bevelhefler — when 
you  count  twelf,  you  must  count  dirteen. — Hah! 
hah  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !"  And  he  counted  out  the  thir- 
teenth cookie  like  a  brave  fellow. 

The  old  woman  made  him  a  low  courtes)',  and 
laughed  till  slie  might  have  shown  her  teeth,  if  she 
had  any. 

"  Friend  Boomptie,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  exhibit- 
ing the  perfection  of  a  nicely  modulated  scream — 
"friend  Boomptie,  I  love  such  generous  httle  fellows 
as  5^ou,  in  my  heart.  1  salute  you,"  and  she  ad- 
vanced to  kiss  him.  Boss  Boomptie  did  not  at  all 
like  the  proposition  ;  but,  doubtless,  inspired  by  St. 
Nicholas,  he  submitted  with  indescribable  grace. 

At  that  moment,  an  explosion  was  heard  inside 
the  little  glass  pane,  and  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Boomptie 
crying  out, 

"  You  false-hearted  villain  !  have  I  found  out  your 
tricks  at  last  ?" 


216  KNICKERBOCKER  HALL. 

"  De  Philistyner  Onweetende!"  cried  Boss  Boomp- 
lie.     "  She's  come  to  her  speech  at  last !" 

"  The  spell  is  broken  !"  screamed  the  old  woman 
with  the  sharp  eyes,  nose,  chin,  and  voice. — "  The 
spell  is  broken,  and  henceforward  a  dozen  is  thir- 
teen, and  thirteen  is  a  dozen  !  There  shall  be  thir- 
teen new-year  cookies  to  the  dozen,  as  a  type  of  the 
thirteen  mighty  states  that  are  to  arise  out  of  the 
ruins  of  the  government  of  Faderland  !" 

Thereupon  she  took  a  new-year  cake  bearing  the 
effigy  of  the  blessed  St.  Nicholas,  and  caused  Boss 
Boomptie  to  swear  upon  it,  that  for  ever  afterwards 
twelve  should  be  thirteen,  and  thirteen  should  be 
twelve.  After  which  she  mounted  her  broomstick 
and  disappeared,  just  as  the  little  old  Dutch  clock 
struck  twelve.  From  that  time  forward,  the  spell 
that  hung  over  Knickerbocker  Hall,  w^as  broken  ; 
and  ever  since  it  has  been  illustrious  for  baking  the 
most  glorious  new-year  cookies  in  our  country. 
Every  thing  became  as  before :  the  little  'prentice 
boys  returned,  mounted  an  the  batch  of  bread,  and 
their  adventures  may,  perad venture,  be  told  some 
other  time.  Finally,  from  that  day  forward  no 
baker  of  New- Amsterdam  was  ever  bewitched,  at 
least  by  an  ugly  old  woman,  and  a  baker's  dozen 
has  always  been  counted  as  thirteen. 


THE  ROBBER. 


WILLIAM     C.     BRYANT. 


Beside  a  lonely  mountain  path, 

Within  a  mossy  wood 
That  crowned  the  wild  wind-beaten  cliffs, 

A  lurking  robber  stood. 
His  foreign  garb,  his  gloomy  eye, 

His  cheek  of  swarthy  stain 
Bespoke  him  one  who  might  have  been 

A  pirate  on  the  main, 
Or  bandit  on  the  far-off  hills 

Of  Cuba  or  of  Spain. 

His  ready  pistol  in  his  hand, 

A  shadowing  bough  be  raised. 
Glared  forth,  as  crouching  tiger  glares, 

And  muttered  as  he  gazed — 
*'  Sure  he  must  sleep  upon  his  steed — 

I  deemed  the  laggard  near  ; 
I'll  give  him,  for  the  gold  he  wears, 

A  sounder  slumber  here  ; 
His  chaj;ger,  when  I  press  his  flank, 

Shall  leap  like  mountain  deer."  • 

Long,  long  he  watched,  and  listened  long, 
There  came  no  traveller  by. 

The  ruffian  growled  a  harsher  curse. 
And  gloomier  grew  his  eye. 

Vol.  I.  19 


m 


218  THE  ROBBER. 

While,  o'er  the  sultry/ heaven,  began 

A  leaden  haze  to  spread. 
And,  past  his  noon,  the  summer  sun 

A  dimmer  beam  to  shed, 
And  on  that  mountain  summit  fell 

A  silence  deep  and  dread. 

Then  ceased  the  bristling  pine  to  sigh. 

Still  hung  the  birchen  spray  ; 
The  air  that  wrapped  those  massy  clifls 

AVas  motionless  as  they  ; 
Mute  was  the  cricket  in  his  cleft — 

But  mountain  torrents  round 
Sent  hollow  murmurs  from  their  glens. 

Like  voices  under  ground. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  robber's  cheek, 

He  shuddered  at  the  sound. 

'Twere  vain  to  ask  what  fearful  thought 

Convulsed  his  brow  with  pain  ; 
"  The  dead  talk  not,*'  he  said  at  length. 

And  turned  to  watch  again. 
Skyward  he  looked — a  lurid  cloud 

Hung  low  and  blackening  there  ; 
And  through  its  skirts  the  sunshine  came, 

A  strange,  malignant  glare. 
His  ample  chest  drew  in,  with  toil, 

The  hot  and  stifling  air. 

His  ear  has  caught  a  distant  sound — 

But  not  the  tramp  of  steed — 
A  roar  as  of  a  torrent  stream, 

Swoln  into  sudden  speed. 
The  gathered  vapors  in  the  west, 

Before  a  rushing  blast, 
Like  living  monsters  of  the  air, 

Black,  serpent-like,  and  vast, 
Writhe,  roll,  and  sweeping  o'er  the  sun, 

A  frightful  shadow  cast. 


THE  ROBBER.  219 

Hark  to  that  nearer,  mightier  crash  ! 

As  if  a  giant  crowd, 
Trampling  the  oaks  with  iron  feet. 

Had  issued  from  the  cloud  ; 
While  fragments  of  dissevered  rock 

Go  thundering  from  on  high. 
And  eastward,  from  their  eyrie-cliffs, 

The  shrieking  eagles  fly  ; 
And  lo  I  the  expected  traveller  comes, 

Spurring  his  charger  by. 

To  that  wild  warning  of  the  air. 

The  assassin  lends  no  heed  : 
He  lifts  the  pistol  to  his  eye. 

He  notes  the  horseman's  speed  : 
Firm  is  his  hand  and  sure  his  aim — 

But  ere  the  flash  is  given, 
Its  eddies  filled  with  woods  uptorn, 

And  spray  from  torrents  driven. 
The  whirlwind  sweeps  the  crashing  wood — 

The  giant  firs  are  riven. 

Riven,  and  wrenched  up  from  splintering  cliffs. 

They  rise  like  down  in  air  ; 
At  once  the  forest's  rocky  floor 

Lies  to  the  tempest  bare. 
Rider  and  steed  and  robber  whirled 

O'er  precipices  vast, 
'Mong  trunks  and  boughs  and  shattered  crags, 

Mangled  and  crushed,  are  cast. 
The  catamount  and  eagle  made, 

At  morn,  a  grim  repast. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 


STUART 


''  I  was  bred  a  lady,  and  must  have  my  state,  through  the  prejudice 
of  education." — Inconstant,  Im. 


On  the  4tii  of  October,  1829 — I  love  to  be  parti- 
cular in  dates — a  coach  and  six  drew  up  before  the 

shop  of  the  well-known  jeweller,  M ,  Rue  St. 

Honore.  The  equipage  was  covered  with  a  profu- 
sion of  gilding  and  heraldic  devices,  and  the  liveries 
of  the  footmen  indicated  high  rank  in  the  possessor. 
The  steps  being  adjusted,  a  lady,  splendidly  dressed, 
descended,  and  entered  the  shop,  where  all  the  at- 
tendants, and  even  M himself,  were  profuse  in 

their  attentions — anticipating  every  look  and  sign, 
and  displaying  before  her  the  most  costly  diamonds 
and  pier  Her  ies. 

The  lady,  with  the  most  lofty  nonchalance,  se- 
lected jewels  to  the  amount  of  about  five  thousand 
pounds,  which  were  immediately  placed  in  a  casket 
])y  the  obsequious  attendants,  when,  handing  her 
purse  to  the  jeweller,  he  found  it  contained  a  sum, 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 


221 


somewhat  exceeding  tliree  thousand  pounds,  and 
short  of  the  requisite  amount.  The  lady,  with  many 
graceful  apologies,  and  a  momentary  flush  of  vexa- 
tion, begged  pardon  for  the  mistake — desired  M 

to  lay  the  parcel  by  until  she  should  call  again  with 
the  money,  and  giving  her  name  as  the  Comtesse 

de   L ,   departed   with  all  the  ceremony  and 

splendor  that  marked  her  first  appearance. 

The  coach  passed  up  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  in  the 
direction  of  the  Barriere  Neuilly,  turned  by  the 
Place  de  Louis  Quinze,  and  finally  stopped  at  the 
house  of  a  celebrated  physician  in  the  Rue  de  Ri- 
voli.     The  lady  alighted  here,  and  was  shown  into 

the  presence  of  the  well  known  Docteur  N , 

who,  arising  from  his  seat  at  a  table  covered  with 
anatomical  preparations,  saluted  her  with  his  usual 
courtesy,  and  begged  to  know  why  he  was  honored 
with  this  unexpected  visit. 

The  lady,  assuming  an  air  of  settled  melancholy, 
replied,  "  I  can  hardly  command  my  feelings,  to  tell 
you  the  cause  of  my  unhappiness.  My  dear  hus- 
band, the  Comte  de  L ,  during  the  early  years 

of  our  marriage,  was  all  that  a  fond  wife  could  de- 
sire ;  my  slightest  word,  hint,  or  sign  was  sufficient 
inducement  for  him  to  obtain  any  object  of  my 
wishes ;  but  latterly  the  scene  is  changed,"  (here 
her  voice  became  nearly  inarticulate  through  grief) 
"  he  has  become  moody,  sullen,  and  reserved  ;  at 
times  breaking  forth  into  violent  fits  of  rage  with- 
out any  apparent  cause,  thus  making  my  life  a 
perpetual  scene  of  misery— in  short,  dear  doctor,  I 
19* 


'^22      THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 

more  than  suspect  he  is  touched  with  insanity,  and 
it  is  on  his  account  that  I  now  visit  you,  to  obtain 
your  advice,  which  I  consider  of  more  weight  than 
that  of  any  other  member  of  the  profession,"  (here 
the  doctor,  much  flattered,  made  a  low  disclaiming 
bow,)  ''  especially  as  the  dreadful  secret  has  been 
concealed  from  all  his  family,  not  even  his  brothers 
and  sisters  having  the  slightest  intimation  of  it. 

"  The  following  circumstance,  doctor,  has  espe- 
cially influenced  my  present  visit.  My  dear  hus- 
band, the  comte,  wishing  to  support  the  honor  of 
his  house,  sent  me  last  spring  to  the  noted  jeweller 

M ,  Rue  St.  Honore,  with  a  carte  blanche,  to 

select  ornaments  to  wear  at  the  approaching  festi- 
val. I  at  first  hesitated,  but  finally,  urged  by  his 
earnest  protestations,  went  to-day,  and  chose  a  few 
to  a  trifling  amount,  more  to  please  him  than  my- 
self, as  he  delights,  the  dear  comte,*^  (here  the  lady 
sobbed,)  "in  seeing  me  splendidly  dressed  and  sup- 
porting my  rank.  But,  from  the  many  similar  in- 
stances I  have  observed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt, 
that,  on  being  reminded  of  the  fact,  he  will  pretend 
utter  incredulity,  and  on  being  assured  of  its  truth, 
burst  into  those  terrible  paroxysms,  which  but  too 
clearly  indicate  the  cause  of  his  disorder.  There- 
fore, dear  doctor,  favour  me  with  your  best — kindest 
advice — and — and — excuse  the  feelings  of  a  wife  ;"' 
(here  the  lady  applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  face 
and  was  silent.) 

The  doctor,  crossing  his  leg,  and  supporting  his 
chin  upon  his  gold-headed  cane,  began  to  cogitate, 


THE  MYSTEKIOUS  COUNTESS.  223 

with  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  body  mclining 
forward  at  an  angle  of  forty-live  degrees.     '•  Hum 
— madame,  confine  him — yes,  madame,  we  must — 
a  clear  case,  madame — the  humors,  which,  had 
they  been  pituital  or  salivary,  would  have  been  ex- 
pectorated, having  become  sanguineous  and  melan- 
choHc,  have  retrograded  upon  the  cerebellum — hem 
— m — and,  collecting  within  the  parietal  develop- 
ments, have  partially  obtunded  the  organ  of  me- 
mory, and  occoecated  the  mental  perceptions — yes, 
madame — water-gruel  and  flagellation"' — (here  the 
lady's  tears  redoubled,)  "  beg  pardon,  madame,  tell 
the  worst — always  best — what  says  Galen?  '  Non 
decipiendum  sed  monendum  ;'  but  excuse  me,  ma- 
dame, while  I  make  the  necessary  preparations." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  rung  a  bell,  and  directed  his 
valet  to  see  his  chariot  at  the  door,  and  to  order 
Jean,  le  porteur,  and  Francois,  le  cocher,  to  attend 
him  immediately;  "and,  hark'ee,"  said  he  in  an 
under  tone,  "  tell  them  to  bring  all  my  apparatus 
des  lunatiques,  depechez,  and  let  them  follow  in  my 
chariot.  I  will  avail  myself  of  the  carriage  of  the 
comtesse,"  (the  lady  made  a  bow  of  gratified  ac- 
knowledgment,) "  and  be  careful  to  remain  in  the 
ante-room  till  I  call  aloud." 

The  servant  retired,  and  in  a  few  minutes  an- 
nounced every  thing  ready.  The  doctor  entered 
the  carriage  of  the  comtesse ;  his  own  chariot  fol- 
lowed at  a  short  distance  behind.  During  the  ride, 
he  used  every  argument  to  assuage  the  grief  of  the 
lady,w  hich  would  burst  forth  at  times  with  increased 


224      THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 

vehemence,  until  the  honest  medicin  himself,  har- 
dened as  he  was  to  the  details  of  his  profession,  be- 
came affected  by  sympathy.  It  seemed  as  if  every 
tranquil  moment  only  added  to  the  violence  of  the 
succeeding  paroxysm. 

Passing  down  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  they  reach- 
ed the  jeweller   M ,   before  mentioned,  when 

the  lady  pulled  the  string  of  the  coach  and  alight- 
ed.    Upon  entering  the  shop,  she  desired  M • 

to  take  the  packet  of  jewels,  and  accompany 
her  in  her  coach,  assuring  him  of  his  pay  as  soon 
as  she  reached  the  hotel  of  the  comte,  adding,  with 
a  fascinating  smile,  that  he  could  have  no  appre- 
hensions, since  the  jewels  were  still  in  his  keeping. 
The  jeweller,  with  a  low  obeisance  of  flattered  va- 
nity, took  the  parcel  into  his  hands,  insisted  upon 
handing  Madame  la  comtesse  into  the  coach,  sprang 
in  himself,  and  the  coachman  snapping  his  whip, 
the  equipage  rolled  magnificently  down  the  Rue 
St.  Honore. 

After  a  drive  of  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  crossing 
the  Boulevards,  they  stopped  at  a  splendid  hotel  in 
the  Place  du  Trone,  celebrated  in  history  as  the  site 
of  the  Bastile.  The  jeweller,  with  his  packet, 
alighted  first,  then  the  doctor,  and  lastly  the  com- 
tesse. The  doctor  making  a  sign  to  his  myrmidons, 
they  remained  in  the  hall,  while  the  lady  ushered 
the  jeweller  and  doctor  into  an  ante-room  until  the 
comte  should  be  apprised  of  the  arrival  of  his  vi- 
siters. After  a  short  interval,  she  returned,  and  di- 
rected them  to  follow  her.     Ascending  a  splendid 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS.  225 

flight  of  stairs,  she  pointed  them  to  the  apartment 
of  the  comte,  at  the  same  time  receiving  from  the 
jeweller  the  package  of  diamonds,  hinting  to  him  to 
present  his  bill  to  the  comte,  who  was  ready  to  sa- 
tisfy him. 

Upon  entering  the  room,  an  elegant  chmnhre 
carree^  they  found  a  fashionably  dressed  gentleman, 
engaged  in  writing  at  an  escritoir.  He  arose  at 
their  approach,  and  seemed  to  regard  them  with  a 
look  of  astonishment. 

"  Symptoms  to  a  hair,"  ejaculated  the  doctor,  in 
an  under  tone. 

'•  To  what  am  I  indebted,"  said  the  comte,  "  for 
tha  honor  of  this  visit  T 

'\I  believe  I  am  addressing  the  Comte  de  L ,'' 

said  the  doctor. 

"  The  same,"  replied  he,  with  a  slight  bow. 

"  My  name  is  N ,"  rejoined  the  doctor,  after 

a  pause. 

'•  T  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you,"  said 
the  comte. 

To  be  so  coolly  and  sensibly  received  by  a  mad- 
man, was  a  circumstance  beyond  the  doctor's  com- 
prehension ;  the  comte  shrunk  not  from  his  fixed 
gaze,  which,  from  custom  immemorial,  lias  been 
known  to  enthral  the  insane,  nor  did  any  "  gau- 
cheries"  betray  the  "  compression  of  his  cerebellum." 
However,  the  doctor  determined  to  persevere  until 
some  symptom  should  manifest  itself,  to  justify  call- 
ing in  his  posse  comitatus. 


226  THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 

'•  Were  you  never — that  is  to  say — have  you  ne- 
ver been — hem — Monsieur  le  Comte — aflhcted  with 
a  violent  vertigo,  or  headache,  proceeding  from — a 
— hem — pressure  of  the  cerebral  particles — in- 
deed, sir,  you  look  pale — let  me  feel  your  pulse— ^ 
there  it  is — unsteady — tremendous  acceleration  ! 
ah !" 

"  Sir !"  replied  the  comte,  who  had  yielded  his 
hand  in  passive  astonishment,  "  your  language  is 
entirely  incomprehensible — explain  yourself,  sir, 
or  I  shall  order  my  servants  to  show  you  the 
door." 

"  Now  don't  be  getting  warm,"  replied  the  doctor, 
coolly,  delighted  at  what  he  thought  unequiv^ocal 
sj-mptoms  ;  "  don't  fly  into  a  passion  ;  we  all  know 
your  situation ;  a  little  touched,"  (pointing  to  his 
head,)  "just  as  your  wife,  the  comtesse,  said — very 
sensible  at  times,"  (aside  to  the  jeweller.) 

*'  My  wife  ?"  almost  gasped  the  comte,  "  this  is 
beyond  all  endurance  !  I  have  no  wife — and,  sir, 
let  me  tell  you — " 

"  Poor  man — poor  man — ^just  as  she  said — for- 
gets his  nearest  friends  and  relations.  I  suppose, 
then,  M.  le  Comte,  you  do  not  remember  the  jewels 
5^ou  ordered  for  the  comtesse  against  the  coming 

fite^  of  M.  M ?  nor  your  repeated  solicitations 

against  her  will  ?  nor — " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  que  deviendrai-je  V  almost  yelled 
the  comte,  leaping  up  and  throwing  down  his 
cimir  in  his  fury,  as  the  jeweller  advanced  obsequi- 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS.  227 

ouslvj  with  his  bill,   a  foot  long,  in  his  left  hand, 
making  a  sweeping  courtesy  with  his  right. 

"  Now,  now,"  said  the  doctor,  first  in  a  depreca- 
ting, then  in  a  violent  tone,  as  tlie  incensed  comte 
approached  him,  "you  had  better  be  quiet — all 
ready  to  seize  you  in  the  ante-chamber;"  then,  as  he 
rushed  to  the  bell  and  rung  it  furiously — "  no  use 
— servants  know  your  situation — won't  come." 

And  the  comte,  fairly  exhausted  by  passion, 
sunk  into  a  chair. 

"  By  what  authority  do  you  invade  my  house? 
and  who  are  you?"  he  exclaimed. 

'•  You'll  know  soon  enough — got  'em  outside — 
strait  jacket  and  all — here !"  cried  the  doctor, 
stamping  his  foot. 

The  men  stationed  without  burst  in  with  cords, 
canvas,  and  all  the  apparatus  for  confining  luna- 
tics, and  made  a  rush  upon  the  astonished  comte, 
who,  at  the  moment  of  their  entrance,  drew  a  con- 
cealed pistol  and  fired  it  at  the  doctor.  The  ball 
grazed  the  left  side  of  his  head,  carried  off  a  curl  of 
his  periwig,  and  so  jarred  his  "  cerebral  develop- 
ments," that  he  fell,  completely  stunned. 

The  rest  rushed  upon  the  defenceless  comte,  and 
overpowered  him.  They  then  slipped  a  strait 
jacket  upon  him,  and  bound  his  legs  wth  ropes, 
preparatory  to  carrying  him  to  the  doctor's  inaison 
de  sante. 

The  doctor  himself  recovered  immediately  from 
the  stunning  effects  of  the  shot,  and  superintended 


228  THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS. 

the  operations  with  all  professional  precision,  '•  bear- 
ing," he  said,  "  no  ill  to  ihe  j^aiivre  comte  for  what 
he  did,  7nente  7wn  compote,  and  laboring  under  a 
mental  plethora  of  sensibility." 

But  the  cries  of  the  comte  were  long  and  loud ; 
he  roared,  foamed,  and  grinned  at  the  benevolent 
doctor,  and  was  in  a  fair  way  to  occupy  a  cell  of 
any  maison  de  sanU  with  due  lunatic  propriety, 
when  the  neighbors  and  passers  by,  alarmed  at  his 
outrageous  cries,  poured  into  the  chamber  from  all 
quarters,  and  among  them  his  intimate  friends,  the 
Due  de  C and  the  Vicomte  de  S . 

On  seeing  them,  the  comte  suddenly  burst  into 
tears,«and  entreated  them  to  free  him  from  his  con- 
finement, assuring  them  of  his  sanity  of  mind  in 
such  convincing  terms,  that  the  vicomte  could 
hardly  be  restrained  from  drawing  his  sword,  and 
making  an  example  of  the  doctor  on  the  spot. 

'•'•  Ecoutez  moi,  done!  Ecoutez  moi  T  was  all 
the  terrified  man  of  physic  could  utter. 

His  story  was  told — the  jeweller's  coincided — but 
where  was  the  lady  ? — and  the  casket  ? 

About  two  years  afterwards,  I  made  an  official 
visit  to  the  conciergerie,  to  attest  the  dying  confes- 
sion of  a  female  who  had  been  arrested  by  the  po- 
lice as  an  agent  of  the  Carhsts,  and  had  taken  poi- 
son at  the  moment  of  apprehension.  She  was  evi- 
dently sinking  fast,  and  yet  her  eyes  seemed  to 
grow  more  lustrous,  and  her  speech  more  articulate 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  COUNTESS.  229 

and  palheticj  as  ihe  lividness  of  death  overspread 
her  beautiful  countenance.  There  was  a  wild  and 
fearful  energy  in  her  manner,  as  if  she  dreaded  that 
life  would  fail  ere  she  could  unburden  her  con- 
science of  its  secret  load. 

She  began — "  My  name  is  Madeline  Alaine, 
otherwise  Jeanne  Patignon,  otherwise  the  Cotntesse 
de  L !'' 

Jacques  Minard,  Notaire. 


Vol.  I.  20 


"LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE." 


BY  CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


Oh,  it  is  life  !  departed  days 
Fling  back  their  brightness  while  I  gaze  . 
'Tis  Emma's  self — this  brow  so  fair, 
Half  curtained  in  this  glossy  hair. 
These  eyes,  the  very  home  of  love, 
These  dark  twin  arches  traced  above, 
These  red-ripe  lips  that  almost  speak. 
The  fainter  blush  of  this  pure  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily's  beauteous  strife — 
It  is!  ah,  no — 'tis  all  hit  life. 

'Tis  all  hut  life — art  could  not  save 

Thy  graces,  Emma,  from  the  grave  : 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  smile  is  past, 

Thy  love-lit  eyes  have  looked  their  last ; 

Mouldering  beneath  the  coffin's  lid, 

All  we  adored  of  thee  is  hid ; 

Thy  heart,  where  goodness  loved  to  dwell, 

Is  throbless  in  the  narrow  cell ; 

Thy  gentle  voice  shall  charm  no  more. 

Its  last,  last  joyful  note  is  o'er. 

Oft,  oft,  indeed,  it  hath  been  sung. 
The  requiem  of  the  fair  and  young ; 
The  theme  is  old,  alas  !  how  old, 
Of  grief  that  will  not  be  controlled, 
Of  sighs  that  speak  a  father's  wo. 
Of  pangs  that  none  but  mothers  know, 


LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE.  231 

Of  friendship  with  its  bursting  heart, 
Doomed  from  the  idol-one  to  part — 
Still  its  sad  debt  must  feeling  pay, 
Till  feeling,  too,  shall  pass  away. 

0  say,  why  age  and  grief  and  pain 
Shall  long  to  go,  but  long  in  vain, 
Why  vice  is  left  to  mock  at  time. 
And,  gray  in  years,  grow  gray  in  crime  ; 
While  youth,  that  every  eye  makes  glad. 
And  beauty,  all  in  radiance  clad. 
And  goodness,  cheering  every  heart. 
Come,  but  come  only  to  depart ; 
Sunbeams,  to  cheer  life's  wintry  day, 
Sunbeams,  to  flash,  then  fade  away. 

'Tis  darkness  all !  black  banners  wave 

Round  the  cold  borders  of  the  grave  ; 

There,  when  in  agony  we  bend 

O'er  the  fresh  sod  that  hides  a  friend, 

One  only  comfort  then  we  know — 

We,  too,  shall  quit  this  world  of  wo  ; 

We,  too,  shall  find  a  quiet  place, 

With  the  dear  lost  ones  of  our  race  ; 

Our  crumbling  bones  with  theirs  shall  blend, 

And  life's  sad  story  find  an  end. 

And  is  this  all  1  this  mournful  doom  ? 
Beams  no  glad  light  beyond  the  tomb  ! 
Mark  where  yon  clouds  in  darkness  ride  ; 
They  do  not  quench  the  orb  they  hide  ; 
Still  there  it  wheels — the  tempest  o'er. 
In  a  bright  sky  to  burn  once  more  : 
So,  far  above  the  clouds  of  time, 
Faith  can  behold  a  world  sublime  ; 
There,  when  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
The  Light  beyond  shall  break  at  last. 


TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET,  OR  A  HUSBAND. 


BY  JAMES  GORDON'  BENNETT. 


"  I  WISH,'-  said  Maiy  Ann,  "  I  had  two  yards  of 
jaconet.  I  want  it  very  much  to  complete  this  dress 
for  the  next  birthday  at  Richmond.  I  want,  besides, 
a  pretty  large  length  of  pea-green  ribbon.  I  want 
a  feather,  a  white  feather,  to  my  last  bonnet.  I 
want — " 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa,  her  companion, 
"  well,  my  dear,  it  seems  you  have  wants  enough. 
Pra}^  how  many  more  things  do  you  want  be- 
sides?" 

"  More  !"  returned  Mary  Ann,  "why  a  hundred 
more,  to  be  sure,"  said  she  laughing  ;  "  but  I'll  name 
them  all  in  one — I  want  a  husband — a  real,  down- 
right husband." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Louisa,  "  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  heard  you  talk  of  such  an  article.  Can't  you 
select  out  one  among  your  many  admirers?" 

"  A  fig  for  my  admirers  !  I'm  tired — I'm  sick — 
I'm  disgusted  with  my  admirers.     One  comes  and 

makes  silly  compliments;  says,  'Miss  B ,  how 

pretty  you  look  to-day ;'  another  sickens  me  with 


TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET.  233 

his  silly  looks  ;  another  is  so  desperately  in  love 
with  me,  that  he  can't  talk  ;  another,  so  desperately 
in  love  with  himself,  that  he  talks  forever.  Oh  !  I 
wish  I  were  married  ;  I  wish  I  had  a  hushand  ;  or 
at  least,  two  yards  of  jaconet,  to  finish  this  dress  for 
the  Richmond  campaign." 

Mary  Ann  B was  a  gay,  young,   rattling 

creature,  who  had  lost  her  fotlier  and  part  of  her 
heart  at  fourteen.  She  was  now  seventeen ;  pos- 
sessed a  fine  figure,  rather  em-hon-point ;  not  tall, 
hut  very  gracefully  rounded  off.  Her  profuse  auhurn 
ringlets  clustered  negligently  roimd  a  pair  of  cheeks, 
in  which  the  pure  red  and  white  mingled  so  deli- 
cately, that  where  the  one  began,  or  the  other 
ended,  no  one  could  tell.  Her  eyes  w-ere  dark  blue, 
but  possessing  a  lustre  when  liglUed  up  with  feel- 
ing or  enthusiasm,  which  defied  any  one  to  distin- 
guish them  from  burning  black.  Her  motions  were 
light,  airy,  and  graceful.  Her  foot  and  ankle  w^ere 
most  elegantly  formed  :  and  her  two  small  white 
hands,  with  soft,  tapering  fingers,  were  as  aristocra- 
tic as  could  be  imagined  by  a  Byron  or  an  Ali  Pa- 
cha. Since  the  death  of  her  father,  which  was  a 
period  of  about  two  years  or  more,  she  had  had 
many  admirers,  several  decided  offers,  and  not  a 
few  who  hoped,  but  durst  not  venture  upon  the 
fatal  question.  She  lauglied  at  their  ofl^ers,  ridiculed 
her  admirers,  and  protested  she  would  never  marry 
till  she  had  brought  at  least  a  hundred  to  her  feet. 
For  several  counties  around,  up  and  down  James 
20* 


234  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET, 

river,  she   was  quite  a   toast  among  the  young 
planters. 

In  those  cla3's  the  white  sulphur,  blue  sulphur, 
and  hot  sulphur  springs  were  not  much  frequented ; 
but  people  of  fashion  in  lower  Virginia,  the  wealthy 
planters,  were  just  beginning  to  escape  to  the  Blue 
Mountains  duriug  the  autumnal  months.  In  one 
of  those  excursions,  the  party,  of  which  Mary  Ann 
made  a  lively  member,  w^as  overtaken  one  afternoon 
in  a  sudden  rain-storm,  at  the  entrance  of  one  of 
the  gorges  of  the  mountains.  The  party  was 
travelling  in  an  open  carriage,  with  a  sort  of  top 
resembling  that  of  a  gig,  to  spread  out  w^hen  a 
shower  broke  over  them  with  sudden  violence.  On 
the  present  occasion  the  leather  top  afforded  to  the 
ladies  a  very  inadequate  shelter  from  the  torrents 
which  fell  down  from  the  dark  heavy  clouds  above. 
The  first  house  they  approached  w^as  therefore 
kindly  welcomed.  They  dismounted,  went  in,  and 
found  several  3'oung  gentlemen  surrounding  the 
hickory  fire,  wdiicli  was  crackling  merrily  on  a 
large  wide  hearth. 

A  young  man,  of  rather  modest,  easy,  but  unob- 
trusive manners,  rose  at  the  approach  of  Mary  Ann, 
and  offered  her  his  chair.  She  accepted  it,  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  a  quiet  glance  at 
his  general  appearance.  Nothing  remarkable  took 
place  at  this  interview  ;  but  a  few  days  after,  when 
they  had  all  reached  the  foot  of  one  of  the  moun- 
tains, which  was  appropriated  as  the  place  of  gaiety 
and  fashion,  the  young  gentleman  was  formally 


OR  A  HUSBAND.  235 

introduced  to  Mary  Ann,  as  Mr.  C ,  from  Wil- 

liamsburgli,  in  lower  Virginia.  In  a  very  short 
period  he  became  the  devoted  admirer  of  Mary  Ann 
— was  extremely  and  delicately  attentive — and,  of 
course,  gave  rise  to  many  surmises  among  the 
match-makers  and  match-breakers  of  the  springs- 
At  the  close  of  the  season  he  put  forth  his  preten- 
sions in  form.  He  offered  himself  formally  to  Mary 
Ann.  As  usual,  she  spent  a  whole  night  in  think- 
ing, crying,  deliberating,  grieving,  wondering,  and 
next  morning  sent  him  a  flat  refusal. 

So  this  affair,  which  is  a  specimen  of  about  thnty 
or  forty  she  had  managed  in  this  way,  was  consi- 
dered closed  beyond  all  hopes  of  revival.  The  par- 
ties never  again  met,  till  the  moment  we  have  now 
reached  threw  them  accidentally  into  each  other's 
company. 

Since  the  period  just  referred  to,  Mary  Ann  had 
considerably  altered  in  her  feelings  and  her  views. 
She  had  pursued  the  game  of  catching  admirers — 
of  leading  them  on  to  declare  themselves — and  of 
then  rejecting,  with  tears  and  regrets  in  abundance, 
till  she,  and  the  v»'hole  world  of  young  men,  became 
mutually  disgusted  with  each  other.  Yet  she  had 
many  excellent  qualities — was  a  fast  and  enduring 
friend — knew,  as  well  as  any  one,  the  folly  of  her 
course  of  life ;  but  her  ambition,  her  love  of  con- 
quest, her  pride  of  talent,  her  desire  of  winning 
away  the  admirers  of  her  female  rivals,  entirely 
clouded  and  obscured  her  more  amiable  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart. 


236  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET, 

"How  long  have  j'ou  been  in  Williamsburgh, 
Mary  Ann  ?"  asked  her  chere  arnie, 

"  Only  three  days,  and  I  have  only  picked  up 
three  beaux.  What  a  dull  place  this  is.  It  is  called 
the  'classic  shades' — the  'academic  groves  of  the 
Old  Dominion,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  One  of 
the  professors  entertained  me  a  good  two  hours  the 
other  evening  with  the  loves  of  Dido  and  /Eneas. 
I  wish  I  had  a  couple  of  yards  of  jaconet." 

"Or  a  husband—" 

"  Or  a  husband  either,  I  don't  care  which  ;  come, 
my  love,  let's  a  shopping  in  this  classic  town." 

The  two  ladies  immediately  rose,  it  was  about 
noon-day,  put  on  their  bonnets,  took  their  parasols, 
and  sallied  forth. 

"  For  a  husband  or  jaconet,  you  say." 

"  Two  yards  of  jaconet,  or  a  husband." 

The  town  of  Williamsburgh,  like  every  other  little 
towni  in  Virginia,  or  even  New- York,  does  not  con- 
tain many  stores.  A  shopping  expedition  is  there- 
fore soon  completed.  The  two  ladies  sauntered  into 
this  shop,  then  into  that,  sometimes  making  the 
poor  fellow  of  a  shop-keeper  turn  out  his  whole 
stock  in  trade,  and  rewarding  his  pains  by  the  pur- 
chase of  a  sixpenny-worth  of  tape.  They  had  pro- 
ceeded for  an  hour  in  this  lounging^  lazy  style, 
when  Louisa  said,  "  Oh.  Mary  Ann,  here  is  an  old 
beau  of  yours  in  that  store,  with  the  red  gingham 
flapping  at  the  door  like  a  pirate's  flag ;  come,  let 
us  go  and  plague  him  for  '  auld  lang  syne,'  as  Mrs. 
McDonald,  the  Scotch  lady  of  Norfolk,  says.'* 


OR  A  HUSBAND.  237 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mary  Ann,  "  but  which  of  my 
old  admirers  is  it  ?" 

"Have  you  got  your  list  in  your  pocket?" 

"  Not  at  all,  1  left  it  at  my  grandmother's  at  Rich- 
mond ;  what  a  pity  !" 

The  two  wild  creatures,  bounding  like  a  couple 
of  fawns  over  the  forest  glade,  for  they  were  reck- 
less of  the  public  opinion  among  the  old  dowagers 
and  staid  maidens  of  WiUiamsburgh,  entered  the 
store  and  asked  for  a  sight  of  gloves,  muslins,  and 
ribbons.  Mary  Ann  did  not  seem  to  pay  much  at- 
tention to  the  fine  articles  shown  her.  She  ever  and 
anon  cast  her  eyes  by  stealth  round  and  round  the 
store,  endeavoring  to  discover  if  she  recognized  any 
of  the  faces,  as  that  of  an  old  acquaintance.  She 
could  see  nothing  to  repay  the  eflbrt.  Not  a  face 
had  she  ever  seen  before.  She  summoned  up  to  her 
recollection  all  her  former  admirers — they  passed 
through  her  mind  like  tbe  ghosts  in  Macbeth  ;  for, 
notwithstanding  her  rejection  of  so  many  lovers, 
she  ever  retained  a  certain  portion  of  regard  for  every 
poor  fellow  who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  her  whim, 
beauty,  Avitchery,  and  caprice. 

"  This  is  an  Arabian  desert,"  said  Mary  Ann, 
sighing  to  Louisa,  as  she  split  a  pair  of  kid  gloves, 
in  endeavoring  to  get  them  on. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  said  a  gay  young  shopman  ;  "indeed, 
Miss,  they  are  the  best  French  kid." 

"  Pray,"  said  Louisa,  in  a  low  tone,  "  don't  you 
see  any  thing  in  the  back  room  of  the  store  ?"* 


238  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET, 

111  a  remote  coiner  of  the  store,  there  stood  at  the 
desk  a  plainly  dressed  gentleman,  leaning  over  the 
corner  of  a  wooden  raiUng,  with  his  eyes  firmly 
fixed  upon  the  two  ladies,  now  so  actively  engaged 
in  tossing  over  the  counter  all  sorts  of  merchandise 
and  light  French  goods. 

•'  As  I  live,"  said  Mary  Ann,  "  there  is  my  old 
Blue  Ridge  beau.  Oh,  how  wet  I  was,"  whispered 
she,  "  drenched  with  a  summer  shower,  when  first 
I  w^as  thrown  into  his  society.  I  believe  the  poor 
fellow  loved  me  sincerely.  Come,  let  us  spend  upon 
him  at  least  ten  dollars  in  jaconet ;  he  spent  one 
hundred  upon  me  in  balls,  dancing,  colds,  cough- 
drops,  and  drives,  and  got  nothing  for  his  pains  but 
a  neat  hiUet-doiix.  declining  his  poor  heart  and  soft 
hand.     Poor  fellow  !" 

With  this  sally  the  ladies  bought  several  articles, 
scarcely  caring  whether  they  suited  them  or  not. 
When  they  left  the  store,  Mary  Ann  fell  into  a  reve- 
rie, w^as  quite  silent,  w  hich  for  her  was  unusual  and 
singular.  Louisa's  spirits,  on  the  contrary,  gathered 
life  and  energy  as  those  of  her  companion  sunk 
away.  She  talked,  she  laughed,  she  ridiculed  her 
beaux,  she  raUied  Mary  Ann,  and  looking  into  her 
for-once-melancholy  face  said,  "  So,  my  love,  you 
are  caught  at  last." 

"  Caught !"  said  Mary  Ann,  "  indeed  you  arc 
much  mistaken.  I  do  not  think — that  is  to  say,  I 
fancy  I  should  not  like  to^  marry  my  Blue  Ridge 
beau.  Oh  !  Louisa,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  with 
a  tear  in  her  eye,  "  what  a  foolish  creature  I  have 


OR  A  HUSBAND.  239 

been.  Mr.  Colling  wood,  for  that  is  his  name,  I  am 
sure,  quite  sure,  does  not  think  of  me  ;  but  I  cannot 
remember  the  attentions  he  once  paid  me  without 
a  feehng  of  regret." 

"  Why?  now  what's  the  matter  with  you?  After 
refusing  so  many,  are  you  going  to  throw  yourself 
away  upon  a  shopkeeper  ?  A  descendant  of  one  of 
the  most  ancient  families  in  Virginia  to  marry  a 
shopkeeper !" 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  Louisa,  what  is  descent  ?  What 
is  fashion  ?  What  is  all  the  life  I  have  led  ?  Do 
you  see  that  little  white  bouse,  with  green  Venetian 
bhnds,  across  the  street  ?  I  was  one  evening  in  that 
house.  I  saw  enough  to  satisfy  me  that  I  have 
been  pursuing  pleasure,  not  happiness.  Oh  !  if  I 
only  could  feel  as  that  young  wife  does !" 

"You  laugh — I  am  sure  I  do  not  think  of  Mr. 
CoUingwood — but  there  was  a  time  when  his  soft, 
quiet,  affectionate  manner  did  touch  me  most  sensi- 
tively." 

"  Have  you  got  the  gloves  you  bought  ?"  asked 
Louisa. 

Mary  Ann  looked.  She  had  forgotten  them  on 
the  counter,  or  lost  them. 

"  We  must  return  then,"  said  Louisa. 

"  Never,"  said  Mary  Ann.  "  I  never  dare  look 
at  him.  I  am  sure  he  despises  me.  Oh  !  if  he  only 
knew  what  I  feel — what  pangs  pass  through  this 
heart,  1  am  sure  he  would  not — " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Louisa^  "  we  must  return 
and  get  the  gloves." 


240  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET, 

"  Never." 

"  Oh  !  the  jaconet  or  a  husband,  most  assuredly; 
you  remember  your  resoUition  wlien  we  set  out?" 

Mary  Ann  smiled,  while  her  eye  glistened  with  a 
tear.  They  returned  home,  however,  and  sent 
Cato,  the  colored  servant,  for  the  articles  they  had 
forgotten. 

After  this  adventure,  it  was  observed  that  a  visi- 
ble change  came  over  the  manners  and  spirits  of 
Mary  Ann.  Her  gay,  brilliant  sallies  of  wit  and 
ridicule  were  moderated  amazingly.  She  became 
quite  pensive  ;  singularly  thoughtful  for  a  girl  of  her 
unusual  flow  of  spirits.  When  Louisa  rallied  her  on 
fhe  shopping  excursion,  she  replied,  "Indeed, Louisa, 
I  do  not  think  I  could  marry  Mr.  Collingwood ; 
besides,  he  has  forgotten  every  feeling  he  may  have 
entertained  towards  me.'* 

In  a  few  days  after  this  event,  a  party  was  given 
one  evening  at  a  neighboring  house.  The  family 
in  which  Mary  Ann  resided  were  all  invited.  The 
moment  of  re-union  approached  ;  and  Mary  Aon, 
dressed  with  great  elegance,  but  far  less  splendor 
than  usual,  found  herself  at  the  head  of  a  cotillion, 
surrounded  with  several  young  gentlemen,  students 
of  William  and  Mary,  professors,  planters,  and  mer- 
chants. They  were  pressing  forward  in  every  di- 
rection, talking,  and  catching  a  word  or  a  look  from 
so  celebrated  a  belle.  Mary  Ann,  however,  did  not 
appear  to  enjoy  the  group  that  surrounded  her. 
She  was  shooting  her  dark  blue  eyes  easily  and 
negligently  towards  the  entrance,  as  every  new 


OR  A  HUSBAND.  241 

face  came  forward  to  see  all  ihe  party.  The  music 
struck  up,  and  rallying  her  attention,  she  immedi- 
ately stept  off  on  a  dos-a-dos^  with  that  elegance 
and  grace  for  which  she  was  so  particularly  remark- 
able. At  the  close,  as  she  stood  up  beside  her  part- 
ner, throwing  a  beautiful  auburn  ringlet  back  upon 
her  white  round  neck,  her  eye  caught,  w  ith  sudden 
emotion,  a  quiet,  genteel-looking  person,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  It  was  Mr.  Colling  wood.  She 
immediately  dropt  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  looked 
very  narrowly  at  her  left  foot,  as  she  moved  it  on  the 
toe  backwards  and  forwards,  as  it  were  for  want  of 
iliought  or  to  divert  her  thoughts.  In  a  few  seconds 
she  looked  up  in  the  same  direction.  Mr.  Col  ling- 
wood  still  stood  in  the  same  position,  watching  every 
motion  she  made,  and  ever}'  look  she  cast  around 
her.  She  blushed — felt  embarrassed — and  went 
altogether  wrong  in  the  cotillion. 

'•  What  in  the  world  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked 
Louisa. 

••  I  scarcely  know  myself,"'  said  Mary  Ann. 

In  a  few  seconds  the  cotillion  was  brought  to  a 
close,  and  Mary  Ann's  partner  escorted  her  to  a  seat. 
Mr.  Collingwood  approached  through  the  crowd, 
and  stood  before  her., 

"  How  is  Miss ?"  asked  Mr.  Colhngwood, 

with  suppressed  emotion. 

Mary  Ann  muttered  out  a  few  words  in  reply. 
She  dropped  her  glove.  Mr.  Collingwood  picked 
it  up. 

Vol.  I.  21 


242  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET, 

"  This  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  lost  a  glove," 
said  he,  with  a  smile. 

She  received  it,  and  cast  a  look  upon  him  of  in- 
conceivable sweetness. 

"  Do  you  dance  again.  Miss ?" 

"  I  believe  not — 1  am  going  home." 

"  Going  home  !"  said  he,  "  why  the  amusements 
are  scarcely  begun." 

'•'  They  are  ended  with  me,"  said  she,  '•'  for  the 
night.  I  wish  my  servant  would  fetch  my  cloak 
and  bonnet." 

"  Oh,  you  cant  he  going  home  already." 

''  Indeed,  I  am,"  said  she. 

'•  Well,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  I  know  your 
positive  temper  of  old.  Allow  me  to  get  your  cloak 
for  you  r 

■'  Certainly.'" 

Mr.  Collingwood  left  the  room.  Louisa  and  seve- 
ral other  female  friends  gathered  round  her,  per- 
suading her  on  all  sides  not  to  leave  the  party  ere 
it  was  begun.  She  would  not  remain.  Mr.  Col- 
lingwood appeared  at  the  door.  In  the  hall,  for  it 
was  the  fashion  then  and  there  to  do  so,  Mr.  Col- 
hngwood  took  her  bonnet  and  put  it  on. 

"Allow  me,"  said  he,  "to  tie  the  strings?"  She 
nodded  assent;  and  while  he  was  tying  the  ribbon 
under  her  chin,  he  could  not  help  touching  her  soft 
cheek.  He  was  in  ecstasy — she  was  quiet  and  re- 
signed. He  took  the  cloak — he  unfolded  it — he  stood 
in  front  of  her — their  eyes  met — both  blushed — he 
pulled  the  cloak  around  her  shoulders — he  folded  it 


OR  A  HUSBAND  243 

around  and  around  her  bosom — he  trembled  Uke  a 
leaf — she  trembled  also — he  pressed  her  warmly  to 
his  heart,  whispering  in  her  ear — "  Oh,  Mary  Ann, 
if  I  may  hope  ?  yet  indulge  a  hope  T'  For  a  moment 
they  wereleft  alone.  Her  head  sunk  upon  his  breast — 
she  could  not  speak — but  her  heart  was  like  to  burst. 
"  Will  I — dare  I — expect  to  be  yet  happy  ?"  Their 
warm  cheeks  met — their  lips  realized  it  in  one  long, 
long,  long  respiration.  They  tore  away  from  each 
other  without  another  word — every  thing  was  per- 
fectly understood  between  them. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Jamieson,  the  good  lady  of 
the  mansion,  approached,  and  insisted  that  Mary 
Ann  should  not  go  so  early.  "  It  is  really  shameful, 
my  dear,"  said  she,  "to  think  of  leaving  us  at  this 
hour.  AVhen  I  go  to  Richmond,  do  I  leave  you 
thus  abruptly  ?  Why,  Mr.  CoUingwood,  can't  you 
prevail  upon  her  to  stay  a  while  longer  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  '-All  my  rhetoric  has  been 
exhausted,"  said  lie,  '•  and  it  has  proved  unavailing." 

Mary  Ann  looked  at  him  very  archly. 

"  Well,  now,"  continued  the  lady,  '-'I  insist  upon 
your  staying  ;  and  she  forthwith  proceeded  to  take 
off  her  bonnet,  untie  her  cloak,  and  sent  the  servant 
with  them  into  the  side  apartment.  Mary  Ann  was 
unresisting.  She  was  again  led  into  the  room. 
CoUingwood  danced  with  her  all  the  evening.  He 
escorted  her  home  in  the  beautiful  moonlight,  and 
every  now  and  then  he  pressed  the  cloak  around 
her,  with  which  she  appeared  not  by  any  means  to 
find  fault. 


244  TWO  YARDS  OF  JACONET. 

Ill  abuui  a  month,  Mary  Ann  became  Mrs.  Col- 
liiigwood ;  and  immediately,  as  the  parson  had 
finished  the  great  business  of  the  evening,  Louisa, 
who  was  one  of  her  maids,  whispered  in  her  ear, 
'•  Two  yards  of  jaconet,  or  a  husband."  She  smiled, 
and  passed  lier  arm  round  Louisa's  waist.  "  Both, 
my  love — botli,  my  love.  Jaconet  and  a  husband, 
a  husband  and  jaconet." 


EDITOR'S  STUDY. 


BY      THEODOR 


We  were  sitting  in  our  little  secluded  study  the 
other  morning,  ruminating  on  the  most  appropriate 
form  of  addressing  you.  our  trusty  reader,  upon  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  past  week,  and  had  jus^t  dipped 
our  pen  in  the  ink,  shaken  off  the  superfluous  drop, 
and  darted  the  ebon  point  toward  the  paper  \\ith 
the  impulse  of  an  idea,  when  a  knock,  sudden, 
startling,  and  almost  impertinent,  caused  us  to 
lift  our  eyes.  Rap — rap — rap.  Come  in  !  and 
the  intruder  soon  stood  before  us.  We  do  hate  to 
be  interrupted  while  we  are  writing.  It  sweeps  over 
our  placid  temper  like  a  breeze  across  a  mirror-lake, 
covering  it  with  innumerable  ill-natured  little  rij)- 
ples.  It  is  too  bad  to  crush  the  birth  of  a  young 
thought — to  startle  away  the  timid  bird-like  visit 
of  a  new  fancy — to  break  the  images  of  a  faintly 
rising  dream.  No  one  but  a  writer  can  conceive  the 
irreparable  nature  of  such  an  interruption.  You 
cannot  calculate  how  much  you  have  lost,  dear 
reader,  by  these  ill-timed  intruders.  Ideas  on  such 
occasions  are  like  the  sweet  fairies  dancing  on  a 
21* 


246  EDITOR'S  STUDY. 

green,  who  dissolve  into  thin  air  entirely,  the  vei} 
moment  chanticleer  opens  his  brazen  throat  in 
••  .salutation  to  the  morn.''  With  a  frown  like  a 
thunder-cloud,  therefore,  and  an  inward  ejaculation 
not  necessary  to  repeat,  we  gazed  at  the  evil  spirit, 
who  has  to  answer  this  week  for  all  our  stupidity. 
He  was  a  forlorn  and  dismal  looking  creature,  and,  by 
the  blessing  of  charity,  we  had  no  sooner  looked  on 
him  than  the  clouds  melted  from  our  brow,  the  rip- 
ples of  our  temper  smoothed  away  again  into  the 
usual  unruffled  tranquillity,  and  the  ejaculation 
which  had  bounded  up  from  our  heart  before  we 
were  aware,  softened  into  a  downright,  sincere,  and 
rather  sentimental  "  poor  fellow."  He  walked  wnth 
a  s^teady  pace  to  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  with  a 
gentlemaidy  grace  and  dignity  which  w  ere  broadly 
contradicted  by  the  nature  of  his  apparel.  His  hat 
was  slouchy,  and  had  evidently  been  brushed  to 
death.  It  was  one  of  those  things  which  the  dainty 
would  never  lift  but  on  compulsion,  and  then  exclu- 
sively with  the  extreme  tips  of  the  thumb  and  fin- 
ger. It  was  an  antique.  It  might  have  been  dug 
out  of  the  ruins  of  Herculaneum.  The  elbows  of 
his  coat  w^ere  a  history,  an  ancient  history,  reveal- 
ing much  of  his  private  life  and  circumstances,  and 
with  utter  poverty  written  on  every  seam.  Upon 
the  subject  of  his  nether  integuments,  we  do — we 
shall — we  must  remain  silent.  To  have  addressed 
such  a  specimen  of  humanity  in  any  other  tone 
than  that  of  kindness,  would  have  been  the  part  of 
a  Polyphemus,  and  incompatible  with  the  known 


EDITOR'S  STUDY.  247 

benevolence  of  an  editor.  We  therefore  spoke  with 
our  most  courteous  and  insinuating  air.  He  handed 
us  a  paper  in  silence,  with  a  slight  and  momentary 
glow  over  his  rigid,  ghastly  features,  and  a  bashful 
casting  down  of  the  eyes.  We  opened  it.  It  was 
poetry — smooth,  fair,  love-breathing  poetry.  Our 
very  soul  bowed  in  respect  and  commiseration  for 
this  piteous  being,  who  from  the  struggling  anguish 
and  humiliation  of  such  a  station,  could  feel,  and 
love,  and  write  verses.  And  this  fellow  now  has 
arisen  at  early  morn,  and  gone  out  to  smell  the 
flowers,  and  see  the  sun  rise  ;  and  he  has  lingered 
at  night  beneath  the  moon,  and  brooded  over  hi^ 
destiny.  What  crowds  of  practical  curses  must  have 
broken  in  upon  his  meditations ;  what  debts,  duns, 
and  bailiffs ;  what  enraged  landladies,  supercilious 
clerks,  and  saucy  bar-keepers ;  what  disappointed 
schemes,  vain  yearnings,  gloomy  despairs — poor. 
poo7^  fellow.  The  verses  shall  be  printed,  we  ex- 
claimed, even  before  we  had  read  them.  The  man 
of  rags  and  rhymes  reached  out  his  arm  and  grasped 
our  hand.  He  knew  by  intuition  we  had  been  think- 
ing of  his  bailiHs  and  landladies.  His  Up  slightly 
quivered,  and  a  glassiness  came  to  his  fine  hazel 
eyes,  that  might  have  been  moisture  or  not,  for  ere 
we  had  time  to  conclude  our  observations,  he  drew 
himself  up,  and  with  a  smile  that  showed  a  perfect 
set  of  teeth,  and  in  a  low  pleasant  voice,  said,  "  It 
is  my  onhj  enjoyment,"  shook  us  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  w^as  gone  in  a  moment.  Come,  kind 
reader,  let  us  see  what  he  has  been  about. 


248  THE  DISMISSED. 

THE     DISMISSED. 

By  GEORGE   P.   MORRIS. 

"I  suppose  she  was  right  in  rejecting  my  suit. 
Bill  why  did  8hc  kick  me  down  stairs  V 

Halleck's  Discarded 

The  wing  of  my  spirit  is  broken, 

My  day-star  of  hope  has  declined  ; 
For  a  month  not  a  word  have  I  spoken. 

That's  either  polite  or  refined. 
My  mind's  like  the  sky  in  bad  weather, 

When  mist-clouds  around  us  are  curled  ; 
And,  viewing  myself  altogether, 

I'm  the  veriest  wretch  in  the  world 

I  wander  about  like  a  vagrant. 

I  spend  half  my  time  in  the  street ; 
My  conduct's  improper  and  flagrant. 

For  I  quarrel  with  all  that  I  meet. 
Mv  dress  too  is  wholly  neglected, 

My  hat  I  pull  over  my  brow, 
And  I  look  like  a  fellow  suspected 

Of  wishing  to  kick  up  a  row. 

At  home  I'm  an  object  of  horror 

To  boarder,  and  waiter,  and  maid  ; 
But  my  landlady  views  me  with  sorrow. 

When  she  thinks  of  the  bill  that's  unpaid 
Abroad  my  acquaintances  flout  me, 

The  ladies  cry,  "  Bless  us,  look  there  I" 
And  the  little  boys  cluster  about  me, 

And  sensible  citizens  stare. 

One  says,  "  He's  a  victim  to  Cupid," 
Another,  "  His  conduct's  too  bad," 

A  third,  "  He  is  awfully  stupid," 
A  fourth,  "  He  is  perfectly  mad  " 


THE  DISMISSED.  249 

And  then  I  am  watched  like  a  bandit, 

My  friends  with  me  all  are  at  strife — 
By  heaven,  no  longer  I'll  stand  it, 

But  quick  put  an  end  to  my  life  I 

I've  thought  of  the  means — yet  I  shudder 

At  dagger,  or  ratsbane,  or  rope  ; 
At  drawing  with  lancet  my  blood,  or 

At  razor  without  any  soap. 
Suppose  I  should  fall  in  a  duel, 

And  thus  leave  the  stage  with  eclat ; 
But  to  die  with  a  bullet  is  cruel, 

Besides  'twould  be  breaking  the  law. 

Yet  one  way  remains — to  the  river 

I'll  fly  from  the  goadings  of  care — 
But  drown  ? — oh  the  thought  makes  me  shiver 

A  terrible  death,  I  declare. 
Ah  no  !  I'll  once  more  see  my  Kitty, 

And  parry  her  cruel  disdain, 
Beseech  her  to  take  me  in  pity, 

And  never  dismiss  me  again. 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY, 

BY   ENOS  T.   THROOP  MARTIN. 


"  Amorem  virumque  cano" 


I  LIKE  a  quotation  ;  especially  if  it  be  from  the 
classics,  or  poetical,  and  at  the  commencement  of  an 
article.  It  gives  to  one's  production  an  easy,  dash- 
ing appearance,  and  tells  much  of  one's  acquire- 
ments, of  one's  reading  and  memory.  A  qiiotation. 
in  short,  is  decidedly  a  good  thing. 

It  has  been  a  matter  of  much  regret  to  me,  that 
while  poets  have  sung  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  the 
"  Pleasures  of  Memory,  and  the  "  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,"  no  patriot  member  of  my  profession 
has  yet  been  found  to  trumpet  forth  the  Pleamires 
of  an  Attorney.  The  loves,  also,  of  all  living  things, 
from  "  The  loves  of  the  angels"  to  "  The  loves  of  the 
yhell  fishes,"  have  been  celebrated  in  sweet  sound- 
ing rhyme,  while  the  effects  of  the  gi^and  'passion 
on  an  attorney  have  not  yet  found  an  historian, 
even  in  honest  and  unpretending  prose.  Mine, 
tlien,  shall  be  the  task  to  portray  them,  and  mine 
own,  the  loves  that  form  the  subject  of  thi^^  great 
effort. 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY       261 

I  was  a  remarkably  enterprising  boy,  and  made 
out  to  work  myself,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  into  a  huge 
passion  for  a  very  demure  little  infant,  who  had 
numbered  about  as  many  years.  But,  as  my  heart 
was  first  caught  by  a  chinchilla  hat^  and  my  affec- 
tions were  withdrawn  from  their  object  on  account 
of  a  conceived  slight  from  her,  in  playing  "  scorn,' 
I  will  pass  from  this,  "  my  first  love,"  with  the  sin- 
gle remark,  that  at  this  early  period  I  formed  an 
attachment  for  moonlight  nights,  and  learned  seve- 
ral lines  of  Moore's, 

"  When  at  eve  thou  rovest, 
By  the  star  thou  lovest,"  &c. 

Several  llames  of  a  similar  character,  in  the  course 
of  the  three  or  four  following  years,  blazed  up  in 
my  susceptible  bosom,  burned  brilliantly  for  a  short 
period — flickered — and  went  out.  The  next  great 
epoch  in  the  history  of  my  affections,  was  my  six- 
teenth year. 

I  have  before  me  (only  in  imagination,  dear 
reader !)  a  face  that  utterly  baffles  my  skill  in  por- 
traiture. I  might  say  that  it  was  sweet — that  it 
was  beautiful — angelic — intellectual ;  I  might  use 
a  thousand  such  generally  descriptive  terms,  but  J 
should  convey  no  idea  of  the  young  girl  my  me- 
mory has  conjured  up,  and  who  sits  smihng  before 
me,  as  if  in  mockery  of  my  vain  efforts.  What 
shall  I  do?  Shall  I  commence  an  inventory  of  her 
charms,  classify  and  combine  them,  add  beauty  to 
beauty,  grace  to  grace,  perfection  to  perfection,  until 
I  have  worked  up  the  portrait  into  loveliness  equal 


252      THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY. 

lo  the  original  7  Or  shall  I  try  comparisons  and 
similes,  and  describe  her  in  a  rhetorical  figure  ?  I 
hke  the  latter  idea  best.  It  is  soonest  accomplished 
and  will  display  the  brilliancy  of  my  fancy.  Flow 
ers,  it  is  said,  are  the  language  of  love — T  will  make 
them  tlie  vehicle  of  my  description  of  a  lovely  wo 
man.  There  is  something  in  their  light,  delicate 
and  transient  beauty,  so  like  her  of  whom  I  write 
and  withal,  so  like  her  love  for  me,  that  they  are 
admirably  to  my  present  purpose.  Once  more,  then, 
let  me  address  myself  to  thee,  dear  reader,  and  ask 
thee  if  thou  hast  ever  seen  a  loater-lily — a  young, 
tall,  slender,  graceful  water-lily  ?  If  thou  hast,  thou 
hast  seen  something  as  young,  perhaps  half  as  tall, 
and  probably  even  more  slender  ;  but  certainly  not 
half  as  graceful  as  Helen  G.,  when  in  her  fifteenth 
year.  After  all,  I  do  not  think  water-lihes  are  per- 
fectly adapted  to  the  description  of  female  beauty. 
They  answer  well  enough  as  long  as  we  confine 
our  observations  to  the  figure,  face,  complexion,  &c.. 
and  are  even  useful  when  waiting  about  eyes,  as, 
for  instance  : 

"  Her  floating  eyes — oh  I   they  resemble 


Blue  water-lilies,  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble." 

But  when  we  come  to  the  expression  of  the  counte- 
nance, water-lilies,  and  all  other  flowers,  are  dead 
letter.  There  are  a  thousand  beauties  which  they 
have  no  language  to  convey. 

Since  writing  the  above  quotation,  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  a  poetical  would  be  better  even  than  a 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY       253 

flowery  description  of  my  Helen.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  very  softness  of  poetry,  its  refinement, 
its  elevation,  its  enthusiasm,  so  congenial  with  the 
female  character — so  allied  to  feminine  loveliness, 
that  it  is  singular  the  idea  should  not  have  entered 
my  pericranium  before.  But,  alas  !  I  am  an  attor- 
ney^ and  there  is  a  manifest  incongruity  between 
poetry  and  law.  But  if  I  cannot  urite^  I  can  quote 
it ;  and  with  a  proper  admixture  of  poetical  quota- 
tions and  prose  writing,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
convey  to  the  reader  some  idea  of  one  who  exer- 
cised a  controlling  influence  over  my  early,  very 
early  life. 

When  I  first  knew  Helen  G.,  she  was  not  fifteen, 
half-woman,  half-child — uniting  the  light-hearted 
gaiety  and  playfulness  of  the  one  with  the  intelli- 
gence and  accomplishments  of  the  other. 

"  Oh,  she  was  beautiful !  her  flowing  hair 
Hung  in  profusion  round  her  neck  of  snow, 
And  oft,  in  maiden  glee  and  sportiveness. 
Her  gentle  hand  would  catch  her  clustering  curls, 
And  bind  them  in  a  braid  around  her  brow. 
Oh,  she  was  beautiful !  her  graceful  form 
Moved  upon  earth  so  lightly  and  free — 
She  seemed  a  seraph  wanderer  of  the  sky, 
Too  bright,  too  pure,  too  glorious  for  earth." 

Oh,  she  was  beautiful !  and  my  eyes  told  her  so ; 
and  a  stifling,  choking  sensation  I  experienced  on 
taking  her  hand  to  bid  her  farewell,  some  months 
after  my  first  acquaintance,  told  me — what  a  sud- 
den gush  of  tears  a  moment  afterwards  told  her, 
that  I — sweet  youth — was  in  love  with  her  !  Wa^ 
Vol.  I.  22 


254      THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY. 

it  sympathy  that  for  a  moment  dimmed  her  laugh- 
ing eye  ?  Was  it  with  feehng  that  her  voice  trem- 
bled and  her  lip  quivered,  as  she  expressed  the  hope 
that  she  should  see  me  again  ?  Was  it  with  anger 
that  her  cheek  crimsoned,  as  I,  for  the  first  time, 
stole  a  kiss  from  her  lips  ?  I  know  not,  for  I  has- 
tened from  her  presence,  bewildered,  amazed,  sob- 
bing, happy,  foolish  !  She  went  to  school,  and  1 
was  desolate.  I  continued  my  accustomed  pursuits, 
but  they  no  longer  possessed  interest  for  me.  I  resort, 
ed  to  my  old  amusements,  but  the  lightness  of  spirit 
that  once  gave  zest  to  them,  was  with  me  no  longer. 
My  eyes  would  wander  over  the  pages  of  my  books  ; 
but  they  might  as  weW  have  rested  on"  vacancy,  for 
my  heart  was  with  its  owner,  and  my  fancy  was 
busy  in  scenes  enhvened  by  her  presence.  For  four 
months  I  thus  remained,  partly  happy  and  partly 
miserable,  but  always  idle.  This  dreaming  life  ^vas 
interrupted  by  the  actual  presence  of  her  who  was 
the  spirit  of  it.  I  did  not  let  "  concealment  prey  on 
my  damask  cheek,"  but  told  my  love,  and  was 
liappy — happy  for  one  short  month,  which  being 
the  utmost  limit  of  a  boarding-school  vacation. 
I  was  once  more  separated  from  the  object  of  my 
idolatry. 

Years  passed  before  1  saw  her  again,  and  I  had 
become  an  actor  on  the  busy  stage  of  life  ;  a  whirl- 
wind of  human  passions  and  cares  had  swept  over 
the  heart  once  occupied  with  her  image;  but 
through  all  changes  and  through  all  temptations  I 
liad  garnered  up  in  it  the  recollection  of  my  early 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY.  ^55 

affection,  and  with  an  unwavering  devotion  had 
guarded  it  from  the  grosser  and  more  selfish  feehngs 
that  began  to  find  entrance  there. 

"  We  met — 'twas  in  a  crowd," 

at  a  large  party.  She  was  a  gay,  dashing,  fashion- 
able woman,  surrounded  by  admirers  and  flatterer?, 
to  whom  she  was  dispensing,  with  wonderful  ease 
and  grace,  the  words  and  nods  and  smiles,  without 
which  they  assured  her  they  could  not  exist.  I 
think  I  observed  a  shght  fluttering  in  her  manner 
as  I  approached.  I  think  the  hue  of  her  cheek  was 
a  little  less  brilliant,  and  that  her  voice  \vas  a  little 
tremulous,  as  she  answered  my  congratulations  on 

her  arrival  at .  But  it  must  have  been  fancy, 

for  the  last  word  of  her  reply  had  hardly  died  upon 
her  hps,  before  she  w^as  engaged  in  a  spirited  con- 
versation with  a  gentleman  standing  near  her. 
One  moment  convinced  me  that  the  school-girl's 
love  w^as  forgotten.  The  demon  of  fashion  had 
taken  possession  of  the  heart  I  had  for  years  fool- 
ishly thought  mine,  and  the  love  of  admiration  had 
distorted  a  sweet,  unaffected  girl,  into  a  coquette. 
From  the  time  I  made  this  discovery,  I -gave  up  all 
hope  of  further  experience  of  the  "  grand  passion."'' 
and  determined,  inasmuch  as  a  wife  appeared  in- 
dispensable to  my  reputable  standing  in  society,  to 
make  what  is  called  "  a  prudent  marriage" — that 
is,  to  marry,  what  I  had  not,  a  plenty  of  this  world's 
gear.  '•  Hereafter,''  I  exclaimed,  "  the  shaft  of  Cupid 
must  be  gilded  to  pierce  me.  It  is  impossible  for 
me  to  conceive  a  passion   for  merit  and  beauty 


256      THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY. 

alone.  1  would  as  soon  think  of  coveting  an  empty 
coffer,  as  falling  in  love  with  a  girl  without  the 
necessary  attache  of  fortune.     Yes — my 

"  Tender  sigh  and  trickling  tear, 


Long  for  a  thousand  pounds  a  year," 

not  the  requisites  for  love  in  a  cottage  ;  for  the 
money  itself — not  for  assistance  in  hastening  the 
departure  of  my  own  few  straggling  farthings, 
l^nfortunately  for  my  matrimonial  prospects,  the 
warmth  of  my  new  determination  carried  me  into 
extremes,  and  instead  of  selecting  for  my  future 
partner  in  life  a  moderately  ugly  woman,  with  a 
moderately  large  fortune,  I  opened  my  batteries 
upon  a  positive  fright,  with  an  estate  larger  than 
the  domains  of  a  score  of  German  princes.  Alas  ! 
she  was  the  child  of  misfortune,  and  my  heart  was, 
from  the  first,  drawn  towards  her  by  the  holy  and 
blessed  sympathy  we  feel  for  those  on  whom  the 
hand  of  affliction  presses.  She  had  been  bereaved 
of  a  father,  who  I  presume  w^as  affectionate,  and 
deserving  of  her  love,  and  was  the  only  child  of  her 
mother,  and  she  (to  wit,  her  mother)  w^as  a  widow 
— a  rich  widow — very  rich  by  her  dower  out  of  the 
estate,  of  which  her  daughter  was  the  heiress. 
Poor  girl !  was  she  not  to  be  pitied  ? 

It  w  as  an  afternoon  in  June.  I  was  most  roman- 
ticly  taking  a  sociable  cup  of  tea  with  my  proposed 
s;pouse,  under  an  old  oak,  at  her  country-seat  on  the 

river .     I  was  drafting  a  declaration  of  my 

feelings,  and  had,  with  great  care,  framed  one,  to 
which  I  thought  she  could  not  ^ossihXy  demur : 


i 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY.      257 

when,  on  raising  my  eyes  from  the  green  turf,  to 
open  my  suit,  my  attention  was  arrested  by  the  sur- 
passing beauty  of  the  view  before  me.     I  am  not 
an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  scenery  of  any  descrip- 
tion, and,  with  the  exception  of  that  dear  httle  a?ii- 
niatc  production,  the  fairest  of  all,  the  works  of  na- 
ture are  unheeded   by  me,  or  passed  with  an  ac- 
knowledgment merely,  not  di  feeling  that  they  are 
beautiful  and  glorious.     But  when  I  looked  upon 
the  noble  river  before  me,  winding  its  way  through 
a  rich  and  blooming  country,  decked  with  islands, 
and  bordered  with  green :  and  above  all,  when  the 
setting  sun,  collecting,  as  it  were,  all  his  glory  in  a 
dying  effort,  threw  his  golden  light  over  the  scene, 
giving  his  own  hue  to  the  sails,  which  here  and 
there  were  spread  to  receive   the  faint  breath   of 
expiring  day,  and  increasing  the  splendor  of  the 
distant  view,  I  felt  for  once,  that  the  works  of  nature 
were  beautiful ;  and  that  this  world,  notwithstand- 
ing the  assertions  of  interesting  young  admirers  of 
Byron,  who,  with  hanging  heads,  bare  throats,  and 
black  neck-kcrchiefs,  bewail  their  blighted  hopes, 
and  rail  against  their  lot  in  having  been  created 
mortals,  was  one  in  which  I  might  content  myself 
to  live— to  Uve,  and  hve  happy— happy  even  with- 
out the  assistance  of  my  co-teadrinker. 

I  gave  up  the  idea  of  a  prudent  marriage,  and 
my  affections  were  once  more  afloat.  But  love  had 
become  a  disease  with  me.  Like  the  stimulant  of 
the  opium  eater,  or  the  potations  of  the  confirmed  - 
drunkard,  it  became  essential  to  my  existence.  My 
22* 


258      THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY. 

next  flame  had  but  one  fault,  which,  unfortunately, 
1  did  not  discover  until  my  affections  were  almost 
irrecoverably  fixed  upon  her.  She  was  the  most 
brilliantly  beautiful  girl  I  ever  beheld.  In  form, 
feature,  and  complexion,  she  was  unequalled  ;  and 
the  dazzling  brightness  of  her  eyes,  the  fine  classic 
structure  of  her  head,  and  the  air  of  easy  grace 
which  pervaded  all  her  movements,  made  her  at- 
tractive in  the  hio^hest  dei^ree.  I  was  a  lover  at 
sight.  M}'  imagination,  ardent  as  usual,  made  her 
in  mind  all  I  could  wish.  I  was  delighted  on  a  first 
acquaintance,  with  the  piquancy  of  her  remarks 
and  her  powers  of  conversation.  I  adored  her.  I 
opened  to  her  the  inmost  recesses  of  my  heart :  I 
gave  vent  to  the  romance,  the  enthusiasm,  the  poetry 
of  my  nature.  In  a  voice  musical  as  the  waterfall 
that  murmured  near  my  feet,  soft  and  sweet  as  the 
summer  night-wind  that  gently  lifted  my  hair.  I 
spoke  to  her  of  love,  of  the  passion  of  love,  of  love  in 
the  abstract,  its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  joys,  its  sorrows, 
and,  at  last,  I  spoke  to  her  of  my  love  !  As  with  a 
trembling  hand  I  took  hers,  and  with  a  voice  inar- 
ticulate with  emotion,  I  proceeded  with  my  tale — 
she  suddenly  turned  around  to  me,  and  said.  "  Now, 
you  needn't  think  to  cheat  me.  I  know  what  you 
want.     You  w^ant  to  flirt  with  me,  and  I  w^on't !'' 

She  was  a  stick,  a  stone,  a  w^armed  and  walking 
piece  of  marble,  without  a  particle  of  feeling  or  sen- 
timent ;  beautiful  as  the  finest  productions  of  the 
statuary,  glowing,  to  appearance,  as  the  emanations 


THE  LOVES  OF  AN  ATTORNEY.      259 

of  the  painter,  but,  in  fact,  as  dead  and  insensible 
as  either. 

Interesting  as  these  recollections  are  to  me,  I  fear 
to  dwell  longer  on  them,  and  will  therefore  hasten 
to  a  close.  Repeated  disappointment  did  not  dis- 
courage me.  Rejections  were  often  a  relief;  for 
like  the  "  two  third  act''  to  a  bankrupt,  they  cleared 
off  old  scores,  and  enabled  me  to  commence  anew . 
Long  and  perse veringly  did  T  struggle  against  my 
fate.  But  I  was  obliged  to  yield  at  length,  and  sub- 
mit to  my  present  life  of  single  blessedness.  Other 
causes  than  those  to  which  I  have  here  alluded, 
have  contributed  to  my  present  destiny,  but  they 
have  also  tended  to  make  me  satisfied  with  it.  My 
life,  since  all  hope  of  change  has  departed,  and  the 
fire  and  impetuosity  of  youth  have  given  place  to 
the  moderation  and  love  of  quietude,  which  come 
with  the  increase  of  years,  is  not  unpleasing  to  me. 
It  is  agitated  but  by  gentle  hopes  and  fears,  by  chas- 
tened joys  and  meek  sorrows.  The  ruder  storms 
rage  not  over  it — sun  and  cloud  still,  in  their  turn, 
light  and  darken  its  horizon,  and  the  coming 
breeze  is  not  ungrateful ;  for  while  it  changes  its 
hue,  its  gives  variety  and  freshness  to  its  form.  The 
pleasures  of  the  domestic  circle  and  the  endearments 
of  reciprocated  love,  it  is  true,  are  denied  me,  but 
my  heart  has  found  other  objects  to  which  it  has 
attached  itself ;  and  the  tenderness  that,  prodigal- 
like, I  would  have  lavished  upon  one,  now  finds  an 
outpouring  in  benevolence  to  my  fellow-creatures. 


TO  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  ESQ. 


BT  THE  LATE  JOSEPH   R.   DRAKE,    M.  D. 


"  You  damn  me  wilh  faint  prais^e  " 

Yes,  faint  was  my  applause  and  cold  my  praise. 

Though  soul  was  glowing  in  each  polished  line  ; 

But  nobler  subjects  claim  the  poet's  lays — 

A  brighter  glory  waits  a  muse  like  thine. 

Let  amorous  fools  in  love-sick  measure  pine, 

Let  Strangford  whimper  on  in  fancied  pain  ; 

And  leave  to  Moore  the  hacknied  rose  and  vine  ; 

Be  thine  the  task  a  higher  crown  to  gain — 

The  envied  wreath  that  decks  the  patriot's  holy  strain ' 

Yet  not  in  proud  triumphal  song  alone, 

Or  martial  ode,  or  sad  sepulchral  dirge  ; 

There  needs  no  lay  to  make  our  glories  known  1 

There  needs  no  song  the  warrior's  soul  to  urge 

To  tread  the  bounds  of  danger's  stormy  verge  ; 

Columbia  still  shall  win  the  battle's  prize  I 

But  be  it  thine  to  bid  her  mind  emerge  ; 

To  strike  her  harp  until  its  soul  arise 

From  the  neglected  shade  where  low  in  dust  it  lies  I 

Are  there  no  scenes  to  touch  the  poet's  soul  I 

No  deeds  of  arms  to  wake  the  lordly  strain  1 

Shall  Hudson's  billows  unregarded  roll  1 

Has  Warren  fought,  Montgomery  died,  in  vain  ■? 

Shame  !  that  while  every  mountain,  stream,  and  plain. 


TO  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  ESQ.  261 

Hath  theme  for  truth's  proud  voice  or  fancy's  wand, 

No  native  bard  the  patriot  harp  hath  ta'en, 

But  left  to  minstrel  of  a  foreign  strand 

To  sing  the  beauteous  scenes  of  nature's  loveliest  land  ' 

Oh  I  for  a  seat  on  Appalacha's  brow, 
That  I  might  scan  the  glorious  prospect  round  I 
Wild  waving  woods  and  rolling  floods  below, 
Smooth  level  glades  and  fields  with  grain  embrowned  ; 
High  heaving  hills  with  tufted  forests  crowned. 
Rearing  their  proud  tops  to  the  heaven's  blue  dome  ! 
And  emerald  isles  like  banners  green  unwound. 
Seen  floating  o'er  the  lake,  while  round  them  roam 
Blue  billowy  helms  and  dancing  plumes  of  foam. 

'Tis  true,  no  fairies  haunt  our  "verdant  meads," 

No  grinning  imps  deform  our  blazing  hearth  ;  j^ 

Beneath  the  kelpies'  fangs  no  traveller  bleeds,  '^^ 

No  gory  vampyres  taint  our  holy  earth, 

No  spectres  stalk  to  frighten  harmless  mirth, 

Nor  tortured  demon  howls  amid  the  gale ; 

Fair  reason  checks  these  monsters  in  their  birth  ; 

Yet  have  we  lay  of  love  and  horrid  tale  gv^ 

Would  dim  the  manliest  eye  and  make  the  bravest  pale.  'l9| 

Where  is  the  sterile  eye  that  hath  not  shed 

Compassion's  dew-drops  o'er  the  sweet  McCrea! 

Through  midnight  wilds  by  savage  bandit  led  ; 

''Her  heart  is  sad — her  love  is  far  away  ;" 

Elate  that  lover  waits  the  promised  day, 

When  he  shall  clasp  his  blooming  bride  again  ! 

Shine  on,  sweet  visions  !  dreams  of  rapture,  play  I 

Soon  the  cold  corse  of  her  he  loved  in  vain 

Shall  blight  his  withering  heart  and  fire  his  frenzied  brain  I 

Romantic  Wyoming !  could  none  be  found, 
Of  all  that  roam  thy  Eden-bowers  among, 
To  wake  a  native  harp's  untutored  sound. 
And  give  thy  tale  of  wo  the  voice  of  song? 


262  TO  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  ESQ. 

Oh  !  if  description's  cold  and  nerveless  tongue 

From  stranger  harp  such  hallowed  strains  could  call. 

How  doubly  sweet  the  descant  wild  had  rung. 

From  one  who  lingering  o'er  "thy  ruined  wall," 

Had  plucked  thy  mourning  flowers  and  wept  thy  timeless  fall 

The  Huron  chief  escaped  from  foemen  nigh. 

His  frail  bark  lanches  on  Niagara's  tides  ; 

"  Pride  in  his  port !  defiance  in  his  eye  I" 

Singing  his  song  of  death  the  warrior  glides  : 

In  vain  they  yell  along  the  river's  sides  ; 

In  vain  the  arrow  from  its  sheaf  is  torn  ; 

Calm  to  his  doom  the  wiUing  victim  rides, 

And  till  adown  the  roaring  torrent  borne,  [sconi  I 

Mocks  them  with  gestures  proud,  and  laughs  their  rage  to 

Arouse  !  my  friend — let  vivid  fancy  soar  ; 
Look  with  creative  eye  on  nature's  face — 
Bid  "  goblins  damned"  in  wild  Niagara  roar. 
And  view  in  every  field  a  fairy  race  I 
Spur  thy  good  pacolet  to  speed  apace, 
And  spread  a  train  of  nymphs  on  every  shore  ! 
Or,  if  thy  muse  would  woo  a  ruder  grace, 
The  Indian's  evil  manitoes  explore, 
And  rear  the  wondrous  tale  of  legendary  lore. 

Away  I  to  Susquehanna's  utmost  springs 
Where  throned  in  mountain  mist  Arouski  reign?«. 
Shrouding  in  lurid  clouds  his  plumeless  wings. 
And  sternly  sorrowing  o'er  his  tribe's  remains  I 
His  was  the  arm,  like  comet  ere  it  wanes, 
That  tore  the  streamy  lightning  from  the  skies, 
And  smote  the  mammoth  of  the  southern  plains ! 
Wild  with  dismay  the  Creek  affrighted  flies, 
While  in  triumphant  pride  Kenhava's  eagles  rise 

Or  westward  far  where  dark  Miami  wends, 
Seek  that  fair  spot  as  yet  to  fame  unknown, 


TO  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  ESQ  263 

Where  when  the  vesper  dew  of  heaven  descends. 

Soft  music  breathes  in  many  a  melting  tone  ; 

At  times  so  sadly  sweet  it  seems  the  moan 

Of  some  poor  Ariel  penanced  in  the  rock — 

Anon  a  louder  burst — a  scream  !  a  groan  ! 

And  now  amid  the  tempest's  reeling  shock, 

Gibber,  and  shriek,  and  wail,  and  fiendish  laugh,  and  mock. 

Or  climb  the  palisado's  lofty  brows, 

Where  dark  Omanas  waged  the  war  of  hell. 

Till  roused  to  wrath  the  mighty  spirit  rose 

And  pent  the  demons  in  their  prison  cell : 

Full  on  their  heads  the  uprooted  mountain  fell. 

Enclosing  all  within  its  horrid  womb  I 

Straight  from  the  teeming  earth  the  waters  swell. 

And  pillared  rocks  arise  in  cheerless  gloom, 

Around  the  drear  abode,  their  last,  eternal  tomb. 

Be  these  your  lofty  themes  !  but  ne'er  resign 

The  soul  of  song  to  laud  your  lady's  eyes  ; 

Go  kneel  a  worshipper  at  nature's  shrine ! 

For  you  her  rivers  flow,  her  hills  arise  ; 

For  you  her  fields  are  gi-een  and  fair  her  skies  ; 

And  will  you  scorn  them  all  to  pour  your  tame 

And  heartless  lays  of  forced  or  fancied  sighs? 

Still  will  you  wrong  the  muse,  nor  blush  for  shame, 

To  cast  away  renown  and  hide  your  head  from  fame  ? 

Come!  shake  your  trammels  off!  let  fools  rehearse 
Their  loves  and  raptures  in  unmeaning  chime  ; 
Oam  close  their  crude  conceits  in  mawkish  verse. 
And  torture  hacknied  thoughts  in  timeless  rhyme  : 
But  thou  shalt  soar  in  glorious  verse  sublime ! 
With  heavenly  voice  of  music,  strength,  and  fire, 
Waft  wide  the  wonders  of  thy  native  clime  ; 
With  patriot  pride  each  patriot  heart  inspire, 
Till  Europe's  bards  are  mute  before  Columbia's  lyre. 


/ 

A  SEA  PIECE. 

BY  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SYMMEt 


"  This  is  a  mystery  of  the  deep  sea, 

Please  you  to  hear  it  ?    You  will  not  marvel  much, 

For  he  that  made  it  hath  a  mighty  power, 

Calling  up  wondrous  forms  and  images. 

Art  cannot  compass."— O^d  Play. 

It  was  on  a  pleasant  day  in  the  month  of  Sep- 
tember, that  I  received  a  notification  from  the  cap- 
tain of  a  small  vessel,  in  which  my  passage  for  a 
distant  port  had  been  engaged,  apprising  me  of  his 
intention  to  sail  immediately.  I  had  been  already 
delayed  for  some  days,  the  wind  being  in  our  teeth : 
and,  though  still  loth,  as  all  young  trav^ellers  usually 
are,  to  leave  home  for  the  first  time,  the  suspense 
and  impatience  from  waiting  had  been  such,  that 
the  hurrying  call  had  the  effect  of  something  hke  a 
pleasurable  reprieve  upon  my  mind,  and  I  instantly 
obeyed  it.  A  few  moments  sufficed  to  complete  my 
preparations,  and  in  tvvo  hours  all  hands  were  on 
board,  and  the  little  swallow-like  packet,  under  ont_ 
spread  wings,  and  a  clear  and  beautiful  sky,  was 
rapidly  leaving  the  land.     We  had  but  two  passen- 


A  SEA  PIECE.  265 

gers  beside  myself,  both  equally  young,  and  equally 
new  to  the  perils  and  mysteried  of  the  sea  ;  and  for 
a  moderately  long  voyage,  the  prospects  of  enjoy- 
ment were  rather  more  limited  than  was  desirable. 
We  were  soon  conscious  of  our  mutual  dependence, 
and  accordingly  we  entered  into  a  determination, 
each  of  us,  to  do  our  little  for  the  common  comfort 
and  gratification.  What  with  striding  the  narrow 
deck,  half  the  time  in  the  way  of  one  another — 
watching  the  land  of  our  birth-place  and  homes 
fast  receding  from  our  eyes,  and  calculating,  with 
many  doubts,  the  various  chances  of  our  voyage,  we 
contrived,  as  may  be  supposed,  to  get  through  the 
first  day  very  amicably,  and  with  tolerable  satisfac- 
tion. We  were  now  fairly  at  sea.  The  plane  of 
ocean  became  rapidly  undulated  and  more  buoyant. 
Broad  swells  of  water  bore  our  bark  like  a  shell, 
sportively  upon  their  bosoms,  then  sinking  with 
equal  suddenness  from  beneath,  left  it  to  plunge  and 
struggle  in  the  deep  hollow's,  until  borne  up  by  other 
and  succeeding  billows.  Space  and  density,  in  glori- 
ous contrast  and  comparison,  were  all  at  once  before 
us,  in  the  blue  world  of  vacuity  hanging  and  stretch- 
ing above,  and  the  immense,  seldom  quiet,  and  mur- 
muring mass  spread  out  below  it.  The  land  no  longer 
met  our  eyes,  though  strained  and  stretched  to  the 
utmost.  The  clouds  came  down,  and  hung  about 
us,  narrowing  the  horizon  to  a  span,  and  minghng 
gloomily  with  the  surges  that  kept  howling  perpe- 
tually around  us,  growing  at  each  moment  more 
and  more  threatening  and  restless.  Not  a  speck 
Vol.  I.  23 


% 


266  A  SEA  PIECE. 

besides  our  own  little  vessel  was  to  be  seen  amidst 
that  wide  infinity,  that,  admirably  consorted,  was  at 
once  beneath,  above,  around,  and  about  us.  Two 
days  went  by  in  this  manner,  with  scarcely  any 
alteration  in  the  monotonous  character  of  the  pros- 
pect. Still  the  weather  was  fine — the  clouds  that 
gathered  between,  formed  a  shelter  from  the  inten- 
sity of  a  tropical  sun,  and,  in  that  warm  time  and 
region,  were  a  positive  luxury.  But,  towards  the 
evening  of  the  third  day,  there  was  a  hazy  red 
crown  about  the  sun  as  he  sunk  behind  the  swell 
in  our  front — a  curling  and  increasing  motion  of 
the  black  waters,  rushed  impetuously  forward  into 
the  wild  cavern  into  which  he  descended — the 
wind  freshened,  and  took  to  itself  a  melancholy 
and  threatening  tone,  as  it  sung  at  intervals 
among  the  spars  and  cordage;  and,  while  it  con- 
tinued of  itself,  momentarily,  to  change  its  bur- 
den, appeared,  with  a  fine  mystery,  to  warn  us  of 
a  yet  greater  change  in  the  aspect  and  temper  of 
the  dread  elements,  all  clustering  around  us.  The 
old  seamen  looked  grave  and  weather-wise,  and 
shook  their  heads  sagaciously,  when  questioned 
about  the  prospect.  The  captain  strode  the  deck 
impatiently  and  anxiously,  giving  his  orders  in  a 
tone  that  left  little  doubt  on  my  mind,  of  a  perfect 
familiarity,  on  the  part  of  the  ancient  voyageur, 
with  the  undeceptive  and  boding  countenance  of 
sea  and  sky.  Night  came  on,  travelling  hurriedly, 
and  cloaked  up  in  impenetrable  gloom.  The  winds 
continued  to  freshen  and  increase ;  and  but  a  single 


# 


A  SEA  PIECE,      -^m  267 

Star,  hanging  out  like  hope,  shot  a  glance  of  promise 
and  encouragement  through  the  pitchy  and  threat- 
ening atmosphere.  The  prospect  was  quite  too 
uncheering  to  permit  of  much  love,  or  many  looks 
on  the  part  of  fresh-water  seamen.  By  common 
consent,  we  went  helow,  and  ransacking  our  trunks, 
were  enabled  to  conjure  up  a  pack  of  cards,  with 
which,  to  the  no  small  inconvenience  of  our  captain, 
we  sought  to  shut  out  from  thought  any  association 
with  the  dim  and  dismal  prospect  w^e  had  just  been 
contemplating.  He  did  not,  it  is  true,  request  us  to 
lay  aside  our  amusement,  but  he  annoyed  us  exces- 
sively by  his  mutterings  on  the  subject.  He  bade 
us  beware,  for  that  we  were  certainly  bringing  on  a 
storm.  He  had  seen  it  tried,  very  often,  he  assured 
us,  to  produce  such  an  effect,  and  he  had  never 
known  it  fail.  His  terrors  brought  us  the  very  amuse- 
ment for  which  he  was  unwilling  we  should  look 
to  such  devilish  enginery  as  a  pack  of  cards.  We 
had  not  needed  this,  to  convince  us  that  the  seaman 
was  rather  more  given  to  superstition  than  w^ell 
comported  with  the  spirit  of  the  age.  He  was  a 
Connecticut  man,  thoroughly  imbued  with  blue 
laws,  Cotton  Mather,  (fcc,  and  all  the  tales  of  de- 
monology  and  witchcraft,  ever  conceived  or  hatched 
in  that  most  productive  of  all  countries  in  the  way 
of  notions.  He  lectured  us  freely  and  frequently 
upon  his  favorite  topic,  on  which  much  familiarity 
had  even  made  him  eloquent.  We  encouraged  him 
in  his  failing,  and  derived  our  sport  from  its  indul' 
gence.  Believing  fervently  himself  every  syllable  he 


268  A  SEA  PIECE. 

Uttered,  he  could  not  understand  our  presumption 
in  doubting,  as  we  sometimes  did,  many  of  the  vera- 
cious and  marvellous  legends  of  New-England  and 
the  "  Sound,"'  which  he  volunteered  for  our  edifica- 
tion ;  and  when  at  length,  convinced  of  the  utter 
impossibility  of  overthrowing  Avhat,  no  doubt,  he 
considered  the  heresy  of  our  scepticism,  he  appeared 
to  resign  himself  to  the  worst  of  fates.  He  evidently 
regarded  each  of  us  as  a  Jonah,  not  less  worthy  of 
the  water  and  whale  than  his  prototype  of  old  ;  and, 
I  make  not  the  shghtest  question,  would  have  tum- 
bled us  all  overboard,  without  a  solitary  scruple, 
should  the  helm  refuse  to  obey,  or  the  masts  go  by 
the  board.  His  stories,  however,  I  am  free  to  con- 
fess for  myself,  and  I  may  say  for  my  companions 
also,  however  our  philosophy  might  be  disposed  to 
laugh  at  the  matter,  had  a  greater  influence  upon 
all  of  us  than  we  were  willing  to  admit  to  one  ano 
ther.  Upon  me,  in  particular,  the  impression  pro- 
duced was  peculiar  in  its  character.  Not  that,  for  a 
single  moment,  I  could  persuade  myself,  or  be  per- 
suaded by  others,  that  the  mere  playing  of  any 
game  whatever  could  bring  down  upon  us  the 
wrath  of  Heaven,  or  "  hatch  a  fiendish  form  upon 
the  deep,"  but  naturally  disposed  to  live  and  breathe 
only  in  an  "element  of  fiction  and  fantastic  change," 
I  drank  in  every  thing  savoring  of  the  marvellous 
with  an  earnest  and  yielding  spirit.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  born  and  to  have  hved  all  his  life  in  a 
"  witch  element."  He  had  stories,  filled  and  worked 
by  this  principle,  of  every  section  of  the  world  in 


A  SEA  PIECE  269 

which  he  had  sojourned  or  travelled.  He  had  seen 
the  old  boy  himself,  in  the  shape  of  a  black  pigeon, 
in  a  squall  off  the  capes  of  Delaware  ;  and  once,  on 
the  night  of  the  twenty-seventh  June,  had  himself 
counted  (he  phantom-ships  of  the  British  fleet,  under 
Sir  Peter  Parker,  as  they  were  towed  over  the  bar 
of  Charleston,  in  South  Carolina,  to  the  attack  of 
Fort  Moultrie.  What  seemed  to  vex  liim  the  most 
of  these  things  was,  that  the  Carolinians,  whom  he 
pronounced  a  most  obstinate  and  unteachable  race, 
refused  to  believe  a  word  of  the  matter.  But  his 
favorite  legend,  and  that  which  he  believed  as 
honestly  as  the  best  authenticated  chapter  in  scrip- 
ture, was  that  of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  who  was 
driv  en  out  of  the  German  Ocean  ;  and  in  process  of 
time,  and  for  some  such  offence,  was  doomed  to  a 
like  travail  with  the  wandering  Jew.  This  identi- 
cal visionary  he  had  seen  more  than  once,  and  on 
one  occasion  had  nearly  suffered  by  speaking  him. 
It  was  only  by  dint  of  good  fortune  and  bad  wea- 
ther that  he  escaped  unseen  by  that  dreadful  voy- 
ageur,  to  be  noticed  by  whom  is  peril  of  storm  and 
wreck  and  utter  destruction.  It  was  of  this  danger- 
ous  sail  he  had  now  to  warn  us.  We  were  told  that 
this  sea.  and  almost  the  very  portion  which  w^e  now 
travelled,  was  that  in  which  the  Dutchman,  at  this 
season,  usually  sojourned  for  the  exercise,  with  more 
perfect  freedom,  of  his  manifold  vagaries — a  power 
being  given  him,  according  to  our  worthy  captain, 
for  the  due  and  proper  punishment  of  those  who. 
when  his  spirit  was  abroad  upon  the  waters,  dared 
23* 


270  A  SEA  PIECE. 

to  palter  and  trifle  in  idle  games,  sport,  and  buf- 
foonery. Tlie  voyageur  evidently  apprehended 
much,  and  as  the  gale  freshened,  his  countenance 
grew  more  gloomy,  and  his  words  more  importu- 
nate in  reference  to  those  levities  and  sports  which 
we  had  fallen  into.  To  pacify  him  we  forbore,  and 
were  compelled  to  refer  to  other  resources  for  the 
recreation  which  we  required  at  such  a  time.  There 
were  three  of  us,  and  we  told  our  several  stories. 
The  youngest  of  our  trio  was  young  indeed.  He 
was  tall,  slender,  graceful ;  eminently  beautiful,  a 
highly  intelligent  mind,  and  a  finely  wrought  and 
susceptible  spirit.  He  was  deeply  in  love,  truly 
devoted  to  the  young  maiden,  and  the  short  time 
contemplated  to  elapse  before  they  should  again 
meet,  was  one  of  great  and  bitter  privation.  Be- 
coming intimate  from  the  circumstances  of  our  situ- 
ation, and  probably  from  certain  innate  sympathies, 
we  learned  all  these  particulars  from  his  own  hps. 
He  described  the  charms  of  his  mistress,  gave  us  the 
entire  history  of  his  connection,  his  hopes  and  fears 
and  prospects ;  and,  in  turn,  we  were  equally  com- 
municative.    His  name  was  Herbert. 

The  storm  increased,  and  with  so  much  violence, 
that  we  were  fain  to  go  upon  the  deck,  impatient  of 
our  restraint  below,  though  by  no  means  secure, 
even  with  ropes  and  bulwarks  and  a  tenacious 
grasp  above.  I  shall  never  forget  the  awful  splen- 
dor, the  fearful,  the  gorgeous  magnificence  of  that 
prospect.  In  the  previous  ten  minutes  the  gale  had 
increased  to  a  degree  of  violence  that  would  not 


A  SEA  PIECE.  271 

permit  us  to  hang  out  a  rag  of  sail,  and  the  vessel, 
under  her  bare  poles,  was  driving  upon  and  through 
the  black  and  boiling  waters.  Nothing  was  now 
to  be  seen  but  the  great  deeps,  and  vast  and  pon- 
derous bulk  and  body  which  groaned  with  its  own 
huge  and  ungovernable  labors.  Horrible  abysses 
opened  before  us,  monstrous  and  ravenous  billows 
rushed  after  us  in  awful  gambols.  Mountains  ga- 
thering upon  mountains,  clustering  and  clashing 
together,  threw  up  from  the  dreadful  collision  tall 
spiry  columns  of  white  foam,  that  keeping  its  posi- 
tion for  a  few  seconds  would  rush  down  towards  us, 
like  some  god  of  the  sea,  bestriding  the  billows,  and 
directing  tlieir  furies  for  our  destruction.  Under 
such  impulses  we  drove  on,  with  a  recklessness 
fully  according  with  the  dread  spirit  that  presided 
over  the  scene ;  now  darting  through  the  waters, 
occasionally  rushing  beneath  them,  then  emerging 
and  throwing  off  the  spray,  that  shone  upon  the 
black  and  terrific  picture,  in  a  contrast  as  grotesque 
as  the  tinsel  ornaments  upon  the  robe  of  a  tyrant, 
in  the  thick  of  the  battle,  or  at  the  execution  of 
thousands.  On  a  sudden  our  course  was  arrested 
by  a  mountain  of  water,  under  which  our  vessel 
labored.  She  broke  through  the  impediment,  how- 
ever, with  a  fearful  energy.  Another  sea  came  on, 
which  we  shipped,  and  the  bark  reeled  without 
power  beneath  the  stroke.  I  was  thrown  from  my 
feet,  and  seized  with  difficulty  by  the  side,  the  wa- 
ter rushing  in  volumes  over  me.  Again  she  sprung 
up  and  righted,  bnt  with  a  shock  that  again  lost 


272  ^  SEA  PIECE. 

me  the  possession  of  my  hold.  At  that  moment  a 
shriek  of  agony  rushed  through  my  senses  ;  and 
immediately  beside  me  a  passenger,  one  of  my  com- 
panions, torn  from  his  hold,  was  swept  over  the 
side,  into  the  unreturning  ocean.  He  passed  but  a 
foot  from  me,  in  his  progress  to  the  deep.  How  ter- 
rible was  his  cry  of  death — it  will  never  pass  out  of 
my  memory.  He  grasped  desperately  at  my  arm  as 
he  approached  me.  He  would  have  dragged  me 
with  him  to  death,  but  I  shrunk  back ;  and  his  look 
— the  gleam  of  his  eye — its  vacantly  horrible  ex- 
pression will  never  leave  me.  The  vessel  rushed 
on,  unheeding ;  and  I  saw  him  borne  by  the  waves 
buoyantly  for  many  yards  in  her  wake  before  he 
sunk.  He  called  upon  Heaven,  and  the  winds 
howled  in  his  ears,  and  the  waters  mocked  his  sup- 
plications. Down  he  went,  with  one  husky  cry  that 
the  seas  stifled  ;  and  the  agony  was  over.  That  cry 
brought  a  chilling  presentiment  to  my  heart.  Des- 
pair was  in  it  to  all.  Though  I  seemed  to  live  under 
alike  influence,  there  was  a  degree  of  strange  reck- 
lessness even  in  our  scrupulous  captain,  for  which  I 
could  not,  and  indeed  did  not  seek  to  account.  I 
felt  assured  we  could  not  long  survive.  Our  vessel 
groaned  and  labored  fearfully  ;  her  seams  opened, 
and  the  water  came  bubbling  and  hissing  in,  as  if 
impatient  of  their  prey.  Still  she  went  on,  the  vio- 
lence of  the  storm  contributing  to  the  buoyancy  of 
the  billows,  and  aiding  her  in  keeping  afloat.  But, 
amidst  all  this  rage  and  tumult,  the  strife  of  war- 
ring and  vexed  elements,  there  was  yet  one  mo- 


A  SEA  PIECE.  273 

ment  in  which  we  were  under  a  universal  calm ; 
one  awful  moment  afforded,  seemingly  by  the  de- 
mon who  had  roused  the  tempest,  that  we  might  be 
enabled  adequately  to  comprehend  our  situation. 
The  feeling  in  this  extreraest  moment  was  the  same 
with  all  on  board,  with  no  exception  ;  and  one  una- 
nimous prayer  went  up  to  heaven. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  The  winds  and  the 
waves  went  forth  with  redoubled  violence  and 
power.  There  seemed  an  impelling  tempest  from 
every  point  of  the  compass.  Suddenly  a  broad 
and  vivid  flash  of  hghtning  illuminated  the  black 
and  boiling  surges ;  lingering  upon  them  suffi- 
ciently long  to  give  us  a  full  glance  of  the  scene. 
Immediately  in  our  course,  came  a  large  and  majes- 
tic vessel.  She  had  no  sails,  but  pursued  a  path 
directly  in  the  teeth  of  the  tempest.  She  came 
down  upon  us  with  the  swiftness  of  an  eagle.  Her 
decks  w^ere  bare,  as  if  swept  by  a  thousand  seas — 
we  were  right  in  her  path — there  was  no  veering, 
no  change  of  course — no  hope.  The  voice  of  the 
captain  rose  above  the  tempest— it  had  a  hor- 
ror which  the  storm  itself  lacked.  It  spoke  of  the 
utter  despair,  which  was  the  feeling  of  all  of  us 
alike.  "  The  Flying  Dutchman,"  was  all  he  could 
say,  ere  the  supposed  phantom  was  over  us.  I  felt 
the  shock — a  single  crash — and  crew,  cargo,  vessel, 
all — were  down,  crushed  and  writhing  beneath  its 
superior  weight,  struggling  with,  and  finally  sink- 
ing beneath  the  exulting  w  aters.  But  where  was 
.she,  the  mysterious  bark  that  had  destroyed  us? — 


274  ^  SEA  PIECE. 

gone,  gone  !  no  trace  of  her  progress,  except  our 
broken  fragments — our  sinking  hopes. 

There  had  been  no  time  for  preparation  or  for 
prayer.  The  fatal  stranger  had  gone  clean  over, 
or,  indeed,  through  us ;  and,  though  sinking  my- 
self, it  appeared  to  me  that  I  could  see  her  keel, 
with  a  singular  facility  of  optical  penetration,  cut- 
ting the  green  mountains  behind  me,  with  the  ve- 
locity of  an  arrow.  Around  me,  scattered  and  sink- 
ing with  myself,  I  beheld  the  fragments  of  our  ves- 
sel, together  with  the  struggling  atoms  of  our  crew 
and  company.  Among  these,  floating  near  me,  on  a 
spar,  I  recognized  the  fair  and  melancholy  features  of 
young  Herbert,  the  passenger,  whose  love  affair  I 
have  already  glanced  at.  I  felt  myself  sinking,  and 
seized  upon  him  convulsively.  The  spar  upon  which 
he  rested  veered  round,  and,  grasping  it  firmly,  I 
raised  my  body  to  the  surface.  He  felt  conscious  of  its 
inadequacy  to  the  task  of  supporting  both  of  us,  and 
strove  to  divert  its  direction  from  me.  But  in  vain. 
Neither  of  us  could  prove  capable  of  much,  if  any 
generosity,  on  such  an  occasion,  and  at  such  a  time. 
Our  grasp  became  more  firm  ;  and,  while  death  and 
desolation  and  a  nameless  horror  enveloped  every 
thing  in  which  we  were  the  sole  surviving  occu- 
pants, we  were  enemies,  deadly  and  avowed  ene- 
mies— we,  who  had  exchanged  vows  of  the  warm- 
est friendship — to  whom  our  several  hopes  and 
prospects  had  been  unfolded  with  a  confidence  the 
most  pure  and  unqualified — we  sought  each  other's 
destruction,  as  the  only  hope  in  which  our  own 


A  SEA  PIECE.  275 

lives  could  repose.  He  appealed  to  me  with  tears — 
spoke  of  the  young  girl  who  awaited  him — the  joys 
that  were  promised — the  possibility  of  both  survi- 
ving, if  I  would  swim  off  to  a  neighboring  spar 
which  he  strove  to  point  out  to  me.  But  1  saw  no 
spar ;  I  felt  that  he  strove  to  deceive  me,  and  I  be- 
came indignant  with  his  hypocrisy.  What  was  his 
love  to  me  ?  I  laughed  with  a  fierce  fury  in  his  face. 
I  too  had  loves  and  hopes,  and  I  swore  that  I  would 
not  risk  further  a  life  so  precious  in  so  many  ways. 
The  waters  seemed  to  comprehend  our  situation — 
a  swell  threw  us  together,  and  our  grasp  was  mu- 
tual. My  hand  was  upon  his  throat  with  the  gripe 
and  energy  of  despair ;  his  arms,  in  turn,  woujid 
about  my  body.  I  strangled  him.  I  held  on,  till 
all  his  graspings,  all  his  struggles,  and  every  pulsa- 
tion had  entirely  ceased.  My  strength,  as  if  in  close 
correspondence  and  sympathy  with  the  spirit  that 
prompted  me,  seemed  that  of  a  demon.  In  vain 
did  he  struggle.  Could  he  hope  to  contend  with 
die  fiend  of  self,  that  nerved  and  corded  every  vein 
and  muscle  of  my  body  ?  Fool  that  he  was,  but 
such  was  not  his  thought.  He  uttered  but  a  single 
name — but  a  brief  word — through  all  our  contest. 
That  name  was  the  young  girl's,  who  had  his 
pledges  and  his  soul — that  word  was  one  of  prayer 
for  her  and  her  happiness  ;  and  I  smiled  scornfully 
even  in  our  grapple  of  death,  at  the  pusillanimity 
of  his  boyish  heart.  I  had  aspirations,  too,  and  I 
mocked  him  with  the  utterance  of  ambitious  hopes. 
I  told  him  of  my  anticipated  triumphs ;  I  predicted 


276  A  SEA  PIECE. 

my  own  fame  and  future  glory,  and  asked  the  value 
of  his  worthless  life,  in  comparison  with  mine.     He 
had  but  one  answer  to  all  this,  and  that  consisted 
in  the  repetition  of  the  beloved  one's  name.     This 
but  deepened  my  frenzy  and  invigorated  my  hate. 
Had  he  uttered  but  one  ambitious  desire — had  he 
been  stimulated  by  one  single  dream  of  glory  or 
of  greatness,  I  had  spared  his  life.     But  there  was 
something  of  insolence  in  the  humility  of  his  aim 
that  provoked  my  deepest  malignity.     I  grappled 
him  more  firmly  than  ever,  and  withdrew  not  my 
grasp,  until,  by  a  flash  of  hghtning,  I  beheld  him 
blacker  than  the  wild  waters  dashing  around  us. 
I  felt  the  warm  blood  gush  forth  upon  my  hands 
and  arms  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  and  he  hung 
heavily  upon  me.     Would  the  deed  had  not  been 
done.     Would  I  might  have  restored  him ;  but  the 
good  spirit  came  too  late  for  his  hope  and  for  my 
peace.     I  shrunk  from  my  victim.     I  withdrew  my 
grasp — not  so  he.     The  paroxysm  of  death  had 
confirmed  the  spasmodic  hold,  which,  in  the  strug- 
gle, he  had  taken  of  my  body.     My  victory  was 
something  worse  than  defeat.     It  was  not  merely 
death — it  was  the  grave  and  its  foul  associations — 
its  spectres  and  its  worms,  and  they  haunt  me  for 
ever. 

We  were  supported  by  the  buoyancy  of  the  ocean 
alone,  while  under  the  violence  of  its  dread  excite- 
ments ;  and  I  felt  assured  that  the  relaxation  to 
repose  of  the  elements,  would  carry  us  both  down 
together.     Vainly  did  I  struggle  to  detach  myself 


^ 


^ 


A  SEA  PIECE.  277 

from  his  grasp.     Freed  from  one  hand,  the  other 
would  suddenly  clasp  itself  about  my  neck,  with  a 
tenacity  only  increased  by  every  removal.    His  face 
was  thrust  close  into  my  own — the  eyes  lit  up  by 
supernatural  fires  glaring  in  my  own ;  while  the 
teeth,  chattering  in  the  furious  winds,  kept  up  a  per- 
petual cry  of  death — death — death — until  I  was 
mad — wild  as  the  waters  about  me,  and  shrieking 
almost  as  loudly  in  concert  with  the  storm.     For- 
tunately, however,  I  had  but  little  time  for  the  con- 
templation of  these  terrors.     The  agony  of  long 
suspense  was  spared  me.     The  storm  was  over. 
The  spar  on  which  I  floated,  no  longer  sustaine( 
by  the  continuous  swell,  settled,  at  length,  heavily 
down  in  its  pause,  and  without  an  effort,  I  sunk  be- 
beath  the  waters,   the   corpse  of  my  companion 
changing  its  position,  and  riding  rigidly  upon  my 
shoulders.     Ten  thousand  ships  had  not  sustained 
me  under  such  a  pressure.     The  waters  went  over 
nie  with  a  roar  of  triumph,  and  I  felt,  with  Clarence, 
liow  "  horrid  'twas  to  drown."   Even  at  that  moment 
of  dread  and  death,  the  memory  of  that  vivid  picture 
of  the  dramatist  came  to  my  senses,  as  I  realized 
all  its  intensely  fearful  features  in  my  own  fate. 
What  was  that  fate?     The  question  was  indeed 
difficult  of  solution,  for  I  did  not  perish.     I  was  not 
deprived  of  sense  or  feehng,  though  shut  in  from  the 
blessed  air,  and  pressed  upon  and  surrounded  ])/ 
the  rolling  and  yet  turbulent  waters.     For  leagues, 
apparently,  could  I  behold  the  new  domain  into 
which  I  was  now  perforce  a  resident,  the  cold  corpse 
Vol.  I.  24 


278  A  SEA  PIECE. 


still  hanging  loosely  but  firmly  about  my  shoulders. 
I  settled  at  length  upon  a  rock  of  a  broad  surface, 
which  in  turn  rested  upon  a  fine  gravelly  bed  of 
white  sand.  Shrinking  and  shelteiing  themselves 
in  innumerable  crevices  of  the  rocks  around  me, 
from  the  violence  of  the  storm  that  had  raged  above, 
I  was  enabled  in  a  little  time  to  behold  the  number- 
less varieties  of  the  finny  tribe  that  dwelt  in  the 
mighty  seas.  Many  were  the  ferocious  monsters  by 
which  I  was  surrounded ;  and  from  which  1  was 
only  safe  through  the  influence  of  their  own  terrors. 
There  were  huge  serpents,  lions,  and  tigers  of  the 
ocean.  There  roved  the  angry  and  ever  hungry 
shark — his  white  teeth,  showing  like  the  finest  saws, 
promising  little  pause  in  the  banquet  on  his  prey. 
There  leapt  the  lively  porpoise — there  swam  the 
sword-fish,  and  galloped  the  sea-horse.  They  were 
not  long  in  their  advances  ;  I  saw  the  sea-wolf  pre- 
pare to  spring — the  shark  darted  like  an  arrow  on 
my  path,  and,  with  a  horror  too  deep  for  expression, 
I  struck  forth  into  the  billows,  and  strove  once  more 
for  the  upper  air.  A  blow,  from  what  quarter  I  know 
not,  struck  the  corpse  from  my  shoulders,  and  was 
spent  upon  my  head.  My  body  was  seized  by  a 
power  in  whose  grasp  all  vigor  was  gone,  and  every 
muscle  relaxed.  On  a  sudden  the  entire  character 
of  the  scene  was  altered.  My  enemies  assumed  a  new 
guise  and  appearance,  and  in  place  of  fish  and  beast 
and  reptile,  I  perceived  myself  closely  surrounded  by 
a  crowd  of  old  and  young  ladies,  busily  employed 
with  a  dozen  smelling  bottles,  which  they  vigor- 


A  SEA  PIECE.  279 

ously  and  most  industriously  employed  in  applica- 
tion to  my  nostrils.  Where  was  I  l  Instead  of  a 
billowy  dwelling  in  the  sea,  I  was  in  possession  of 
the  large  double  family  pew  in  the  well-known 
meeting-house.  I  had  never  been  to  sea — had  not 
killed  my  companion — was  not  drowned,  and  hope 
never  to  be  ;  but  the  whole  affair  was  a  vast  effort 
of  diablerie — a  horrible  phantasm  of  the  incuhi. 
got  up  by  the  foul  fiend  himself,  and  none  other,  for 
my  especial  exposure  and  mortification.  The  old 
ladies  told  me  I  had  been  trying  to  swim  in  the 
pew;  the  young  ladies  spoke  of  an  endeavor  to 
embrace  the  prettiest  among  them  ;  the  gauntlike, 
however,  most  charitably  put  it  down  to  a  spiritual 
influence;  as,  entre  nous,  doubtless  it  was.  So 
much  for  taking  late  dinners  with  a  friend,  drink- 
ing my  two  bottles  of  Madeira,  and  going  to  a  niglit 
meeting  when  I  should  have  gone  to  bed. 


WEST    POINT. 

iggesied  by  tlie  attendance  on  public  worship  of  the  cadeu,  June,  15 
BY  GEORGE  D.   STRONG. 


Bugles  upon  the  wind  ! 

Hushed  voices  in  the  air — 
And  the  solemn  roll  of  the  stirring  drum 

Proclaim  the  hour  of  prayer  ; 
While,  with  measured  tread  and  downcast  eye, 
The  martial  train  sweep  silent  by  ! 

Away  with  the  nodding  plume, 

And  the  glittering  bayonet  now ; 

For  unmeet  it  were  with  bannered  pomp 

To  record  the  sacred  vow  : 
To  earth-born  strife  let  display  be  given — 
But  the  heart's  meek  homage  alone  to  Heaven ! 

The  organ's  mellow  notes 

Come  swelling  on  the  breeze, 
And,  echoing  forth  from  arch  to  dome, 

Float  richest  symphonies  ! 
While  youthful  forms,  a  sunny  throng, 
With  their  voices  deep  the  strains  prolong  I 

Deserted  now  the  aisles — 

Devotion's  rites  are  past ; 
And  again  the  bugle's  cheering  peals 

Are  ringing  on  the  blast  ! 
Come  forth,  ye  brave,  for  your  country  now, 
With  your  flashing  eye  and  your  lofty  brow ! 


WEST  POINT.  281 

A  voice  from  the  glorious  dead ! 

Awake  to  the  call  of  fame  ! 
By  yon  gorgeous  banner's  spangled  folds, 

And  by  Kosciusko's  name  ! 
And  on  Putnam's  fort,  by  the  light  that  falU 
On  its  ivied  moat  and  its  ruined  walls  I 

The  wave-worn  cavern  sends 

Hoarse  echoes  from  the  deep  ; 
And  the  patriot-call  is  heard  afar 

From  every  giant  steep  ! 
And  the  young  hearts  glow  with  the  sacred  fires 
That  burned  in  the  breasts  of  their  gallant  sires. 

The  glittering  pageant's  past — 

But  martial  forms  are  seen, 
With  bounding  step  and  eagle  glance, 

Careering  o'er  the  green  ; 
And  lovely  woman  by  their  side. 
With  her  blushing  cheek  and  her  eye  of  pride 


Sunset  upon  the  wave  I 

Its  burnished  splendors  pour  ; 
And  the  bird-like  bark  with  its  pinions  sweeps 

Like  an  arrow  from  the  shore  ! 
There  are  golden  locks  in  the  sunbeam,  fanned 
On  the  mirrored  stream  by  the  breezes  bland. 

They  have  passed  like  shadows  by 
That  fade  in  the  morning  beam  ; 
And  the  sylph-like  form  and  the  laughing  eye 

Are  remembered  like  a  dream  ! 
But  memory's  sun  shall  set  at  night, 
Ere  my  soul  forget  those  forms  of  hght ! 


24^ 


] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 


BY  WILLIAM   r.  HAWES. 


AVuoEVER  has  paid  a  visit  to  the   interesting 
country  around  and  about  Jerusalem,  has  found  a 
spot  rich  in  legendary  lore  and  romantic  story.     1 
mean  not  the  ancient  city  of  the  holy  land,  but 
tliat  modern  Jerusalem,  nigh  unto  Babylon,  in  the 
southern   part   of   Queens    county,   Long-Island, 
which  is  conunonly  distinguished  and  known  a> 
Jerusalem  South.  Here,  while  that  right  good  pen- 
man, Cornelius  Van  Tienhoven,  yet  signed  himself 
secretary  of  New-Netherlands,  ran  the  division-line 
between  the  domain  of  the  Briton  and  the  Hollander. 
Here  was  the  field  of  many  a  border  skirmish,  and 
plundering  foray  :  and  the  musket  and  scalping 
knife  gave  frequent  occupation  to  Dutchman,  Indian, 
and  Yankee.     Here  are  still  to  be  seen  the  remains 
of  old  Fort-Neck,  where  Tackapuasha,  the  Marsa- 
peague  sachem,  was  constrained  to  yield  a  sullen 
submission  to  the  conquering  arms  of  the  new  set- 
tlers from  Lynn,  Massachusetts,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Deacon  Tribulation  Smith.*     This  was 


+  S.  Woods'  Memoir  of  Long-Island. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      283 

the  place  that  was  wept  over  by  the  ministers  of 
New-England,  even  as  the  mother  weepeth  over 
her  ailing  infant,  because  the  land  was  licentious, 
and  covered  with  a  flood  of  manifold  profaneness.* 
It  was  the  place  afterwards  designated  by  Governor 
Fletcher,  in  his  speech  to  the  New- York  Assembly, 
as  a  place  needing  a  schoolmaster  and  minister, 
because  he  "  didn't  find  any  provision  had  yet  been 
made  for  propagating  religion."t 

This,  alas  !  is  not  all.  It  is  grievous  to  add,  that 
the  neighboring  bays  and  inlets  of  the  sea  furnished 
sad  temptations  to  maritime  speculations,  which 
they  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  have  money 
enough  of  their  own,  affected  to  esteem  of  rather 
equivocal  morality,  and  which  the  pressure  of  the 
times  and  the  necessities  of  the  people  made  in 
many  instances  very  persuasive,  ay,  almost  irre- 
sistible. 

Not  that  the  Jerusalemites  were  absolutely  all 
pirates.  That  is  a  hard  name,  and  one  that  carries 
with  it  the  idea  of  blood  and  robbery.  But  people 
must  Uve ;  and  if  a  man  has  his  crops  all  cut  off  or 
stolen,  or  if  his  house  and  barn  are  burnt  down  by 
the  savages,  he  must,  as  a  matter  of  course,  look 
out  for  some  other  means  of  livelihood  :  and  certain 
it  is,  that  about  these  times,  many  worthy  gentle- 
men invested  much  property  in  divers  small  craft, 
yclept  brigantines   and   cutters,   wherewith   they 


*  Minutes  of  Dedham  General  Assembly,  1642. 
t  Smith's  History  of  New- York. 


284      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

scoured  the  sea,  paying  visits  unto  other  vessels,  and 
carrying  on  a  general  trade,  after  a  very  wliolesale 
and  extensive  fashion.  Goodly  revenues  are  said 
to  have  been  derived  from  the  business,  and  the 
names  of  many  great  men  and  lords  were  enrolled 
on  the  books  of  the  concerns,  as  sleeping  partners. 
The  excellent  historian  of  New-York  tells  us,  that 
Captain  Kidd  had  for  his  associates  Lord  Chancel- 
lor Somers,  the  duke  of  Shrewsbury,  the  earls  of 
Romney  and  Oxford,  and  other  equally  illustrious 
individuals.*  This  fact  speaks  much  for  the  honor 
of  the  trade  ;  and  we  should  be  careful  how  we  in- 
dulge in  harsh  nomenclature  of  gentlemen  engaged 
in  it,  seeing  that  it  met  the  sanction  and  protection 
of  the  rulers  of  the  land. 

No  place  was  better  calculatedfor  a  depotand  sally- 
port, than  the  bays  of  Matowacs,  as  Long-Island  was 
then  properly  called.  It  was  so  easy  to  run  out  and 
in  ;  and  provisions  and  equipments  and  men  were 
so  handy  to  be  got,  and  there  were  such  good  safe 
harbors,  where  you  might  lie  and  keep  watch  over 
the  beach ;  so  that  if  a  French  barque  from  Mar- 
tinique, or  a  Dutchman  from  Surinam,  or,  in  short, 
any  vessel  with  which  it  might  be  desirable  to  have 
a  little  trade,  hove  in  sight,  you  could  up  sail,  and 
be  on  the  spot  in  ten  minutes.  There  are  many 
relics,  and  many  curious  stories  of  these  expedi- 
tions.    The  historian  before  mentioned,  speaking 


*  Smith,  p.  152. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      285 

of  the  said  water  merchants  with  rather  too  much 
abruptness,  says,  "  It  is  certain  that  the  pirates  were 
supphed  with  provisions  by  the  people  of  Long-Isl- 
and, who  for  many  years  afterwards  were  so  infatu- 
ated with  a  notion  that  they  buried  great  quanti- 
ties of  money  along  the  coast,  that  there  is  scarce 
a  point  of  land  on  the  island,  without  the  marks  of 
their  '  auri  sacra  fames^  Some  credulous  people 
have  ruined  themselves  by  these  researches,  and 
propagated  a  thousand  idle  fables,  current  to  thi.^ 
day  among  our  country  farmers."* 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  brotherhood, 
whose  names  have  come  down  to  posterity,  was  old 
Thomas  Johnson,  otherwise,  and  more  familiarly 
and  commonly  called,  old  Colonel  Tom.  He  was 
a  man  of  unquestioned  courage  and  talent ;  and 
though  every  body  knew  that  his  clipper-built  little 
schooner  carried  a  six-pounder  and  a  miUtary  chest, 
for  some  other  purpose  than  mere  self-defence,  yet 
there  was  not  the  man  who  was  more  respected, 
and  walked  abroad  more  boldly  than  that  same 
Colonel  Tom.  He  had  the  best  farm  too,  and  lived 
in  the  best  and  the  only  brick-house  in  all  Queens 
county.  This  venerable  edifice  is  still  standing, 
though  much  dilapidated,  and  is  an  object  of  awe 
to  all  the  people  in  the  neighborhood.  The  travel- 
ler cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  its  reverend  and 
crumbling  ruins,  as  his  eye  first  falls  upon  it  from 


♦  Smith,  p.  15-; 


286      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

the  neighboring  turnpike  ;  and  if  he  has  heard  the 
story,  he  will  experience  a  chilly  sensation,  and 
draw  a  hard  breath,  while  he  looks  at  the  circular, 
sashless  window  in  the  gable-end.  That  window 
has  been  left  open  ever  since  the  old  colonel's  death. 
His  sons  and  grandsons  used  to  try  all  manner  of 
means  in  their  power  to  close  it  up,  so  as  to  keep 
out  the  rain  and  snow  in  winter,  and  to  preserve, 
moreover  the  credit  of  the  mansion.  They  put  in 
sashes,  and  they  boarded  it  up,  and  they  bricked  it 
up,  ])ut  all  would  not  do ;  so  soon  as  night  came, 
their  work  would  be  destroyed.  A  thunder-shower 
was  sure  to  come  up,  and  the  window  would  be 
struck  with  lightning,  and  the  wood  or  brick  burned 
up,  or  broken  to  pieces ;  and  strange  sights  w^ould 
be  seen,  and  awful  voices  heard,  and  bats,  and 
owls,  and  chimney-swallows,  be  screaming  and 
flapping  about.  So  they  gave  it  up,  concluding 
that  as  this  window  looked  into  the  colonel's  bed- 
room, his  ghost  wanted  it  left  open  for  him  to  revi- 
sit the  old  tenement,  without  being  obliged  to  insi- 
nuate himself  through  a  crack  or  a  key-hole. 

The  location  of  the  said  domicil  is  quite  roman- 
tic. A  beautiful  little  stream  comes  out  of  a  grassy 
grove  in  its  rear,  and  after  meandering  pleasantly 
by  its  side,  and  more  than  half  encircling  it,  shoots 
away,  and  crossing  the  road  under  the  cover  of  a 
close  thicket,  a  little  distance  off,  gradually  swells 
into  a  goodly  creek,  and  rolls  on  its  waters  to  the 
bay.  The  extraordinary  material  and  unconunon 
grandeur  of  the  colonel's  tenement,  very  properly 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      287 

gave  to  this  stream  the  distinguishing  appellation 
of  Brick-house  creek.  It  is  a  quiet  innocent  look- 
ing piece  of  water  as  ever  dimpled ;  yet  does  no 
market-man  drive  his  eel-wagon  across  that  creek, 
of  a  Saturday  night,  without  accelerating  the  speed 
of  his  team,  by  a  brisk  application  of  the  whip ;  or 
without  singing  or  whistling,  perad venture,  a  good 
loud  stave.  This  is  no  impeachment  of  the  cou- 
rage of  eel-merchants  ;  for  any  man  is  justifiable  in 
keeping  as  far  off  from  a  burying-ground  as  possi- 
ble :  and  in  fearful  truth,  when  the  passing  hoof 
makes  the  first  heavy  splash  into  this  stream,  of  a 
dark  night,  it  is  ten  chances  to  one  that  the  sleepy 
driver  will  see  a  dull,  sulphureous  flame  start  up,  a 
few  hundred  yards  to  his  left,  from  the  spot  where 
lie  deposited  the  mortal  remains  of  old  Colonel  Tom. 
That  spot  is  the  place  of  all  places  for  the  grave  of 
a  man  who  loved  the  water  during  his  lifetime.  It 
is  a  little  hillock,  lying  immediately  on  the  edge  of 
the  creek,  which  alwa3^s  keeps  its  sides  cool  and 
green,  and.  in  the  spring  tides,  overflows  its  very 
summit.  Sportsmen  know  the  place  as  a  peculiar 
haunt  for  the  largest  trout.  Often  have  I  felt  the 
truth  and  force  of  old  Izaak  Walton's  doctrines 
about  piety  and  running  brooks,  when  kneeling  on 
that  knoll,  silent  and  almost  breathless,  I  have 
thrown  a  quivering  May  lly,  "  fine  and  far  oflf," 
below  the  last  circle  that  broke  the  watery  mirror 
before  me.  And  then,  when  I  had  become  weary 
of  the  excitement,  or  "  the  school  was  broke  up,"  it 
w^as  luxury  to  stretch  myself  out  on  the  good  green 


28S      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

grass,  and  lean  my  rod  against  one  of  the  tomb- 
stones, and  decipher  the  almost  obliterated  epitaphs. 
No  man  dare,  no  man  can  be  irreverend  here. 
Independently  of  the  associations  and  the  stories 
about  the  place,   the   very   locality,  the  air,   the 
ground,   the  water,  make  one  sentimentally  and 
seriously  disposed  in  spite  of  himself — excepting, 
always,  in  mosquito  time.     In  ancient  days,  if  Jim 
Smith  and  Daniel  Wanza  (who  always  killed  more 
fish  than  any  two  men  in  the  county)  spoke  of  try- 
ing Brick-house  creek,  they  always  did  it  with  a 
thoughtful,  solemn  visage,  as  'though  they  were 
talking  of  going  to  jail,  or  a  funeral.     And  well 
they  might :  for  they  were  soaking  their  villanous 
ground-bait  there  one  afternoon,  when  a  Yorker, 
who  had  been  lashing  the  water  with  all  manner 
of  etymologicial  excerpts  from  his  fishing-book  for 
tedious  hours,  at  last  struck  a  glorious  three-poun- 
der.    "  By  heaven,"  he  exclaimed  in  the  transports 
of  his  delight,  "  I've  got  a  good  one."  But  the  words 
were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth,  than  the  fish  was 
off'his  hook.  The  ground  heaved  underneath  them ; 
a  low,  rumbling  noise  was  heard ;  a  few  drops  of 
rain  fell,  and  Daniel  said  he  smelt  sulphur  very 
plainly. 

But  Saturday  night  used  to  be  the  time  to  go 
down  to  the  creek  to  see  sights.  Then  was  the 
time  when  the  old  pirate  was  sure  to  have  a  frolic. 
There  are  many  most  credible  people  who  remem- 
ber repeatedly  seeing  his  little  schooner  dashing 
across  the  bay,  with  her  full  complement  of  meii 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      289 

and  arms,  sailing  right  into  the  eye  of  the  wind ; 
while  every  now  and  then  the  crew's  upUfted  right 
hands  showed  each  a  brimming  goblet,  and  the  air 
smelt  of  Jamaica  spirits,  and  then  rung  with  a 
hoarse  hurrah.  Just  at  dawn  the  schooner  would 
make  up  Brick-house  creek,  and  run  into  the  grave 
yard  and  vanish. 

When  Jaac  Spragg  first  went  down  to  Hungry 
harbor  to  live — this  was  a  good  many  years  ago — 
he  used  to  laugh  at  all  these  stories.  His  aunt  Cha- 
rity often  took  him  to  task,  and  told  him  he'd  be  sorry 
for  his  want  of  faith  one  day  or  other ;  but  Jaac 
stuck  to  his  infidelity,  and  once  he  went  so  far  as  to 
say,  that  "  he'd  be  hanged  if  he  wouldn't  hke  to 
come  across  this  same  Colonel  Tom."  Ben  Storer 
was  standing  by,  and  heard  that  speech,  and  offered 
Jaac  to  wager  him  a  quart  of  rum  he  wouldn't  dare 
to  go  eeling  next  Saturday  night  alone,  down  in 
the  bay  below  Brick-house  creek. 

Jaac  laughed,  and  took  the  bet  at  once.  Satur- 
day night  came,  and  his  skiff,  jack,  and  firewood 
were  all  ready. 

Now,  as  the  word  '-  jack  "  is  not  to  be  found  in  any 
but  ichthyological  dictionaries,  it  shall  be  the  glory, 
as  it  is  the  duty  of  the  faithful  narrator  of  this  authen- 
tic legend,  here  to  explain  its  signification,  and  to  in- 
troduce it  into  good  society.  "  Jack  "  is  an  English 
abbreviation  of  the  Latin  "  jaculum,"  which  signi- 
fies any  thing  that  may  be  shot  or  thrown.  This 
is  the  definition  given  by  the  learned  Varro,  whose 
words  (as  the  scholar  will  remember)  are  ^'jacidum 

Vol.  I.  25 


290      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

dicitur,  quod  tU  jadatur^fit"  The  Roman  fisher- 
men, ill  the  time  of  Augustus,  apphed  the  word 
precisely  as  do  our  modern  piscators.  Thus  Ho- 
race, in  his  ode  to  Grosphus,  goes  out  of  his  way 
to  pay  himself  a  comphment  for  his  own  skill  with 
the  eel-spear : 

"  *  *  *  *  brevi  fortes  jacularnnr  aevo 
Multa.'' 

It  consists  of  a  series  of  sharp  iron  prongs  or 
forks,  barbed  and  headed,  united  in  a  straight  cross- 
piece,  and  secured,  nailed,  or  otherwise  fastened 
upon  a  light  wooden  rod  or  pole,  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet  long.  It  may  be  hkened,  above  all  things  else, 
to  a  three-pronged  pitchfork,  save  that  a  pitchfork 
hath  no  barb,  and  that  the  eel-spear  is  calculated  to 
catch  eels,  and  the  pitchfork  to  toss  hay  and  sinners: 
which  are  not  so  slippery.  The  distinction  is  very 
happily  expressed  by  Quintihan,  in  the  word  "  ab- 
ruj)ta'^ — ^'' ahrupta  qucBdam  jacidantur^'*  This 
said  jack,  then,  being  thrust  with  vehement  force 
against  the  fishy  victim,  apprehends  him  in  his 
muddy  course,  and  brings  him,  wounded  and 
squirming,  out  of  his  element.  Night  is  the  best 
time  for  this  amusement,  as  you  can  then  have  the 
benefit  of  the  light  of  a  good  fire  to  stream  upon  the 
water,  and  attract  and  dazzle  your  prey.  The 
brightest  fire  is  made  by  old  pine  knots,  which  you 
ignite  on  the  bottom  of  your  boat,  upon  a  fire-place 
of  large  flat  stones.  The  light  thus  kindled  is  called 
a  "jacko'-lantern,"  from  the  woYd-^^jaculantur" 
above  quoted,  expressive  of  the  act  of  throwing  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      ggi 

spear ;  and  the  word  thus  originally  formed,  is  now 
common  to  every  schoolboy  in  the  country  as  the 
name  of  any  wild  fiery  shoot  or  exhalation. 

Midnight  arrived,  and  found  Jaac  on  the  bow  of 
his  skiff,  faithfully  shoving  about  the  flats  below 
Brick-house  creek,  as  unconcerned  as  though  he 
had  never  heard  of  pirate  Johnson,  or,  what  is  more, 
as  if  he  had  no  rum  at  stake  upon  his  night's  ad- 
venture. Jaac  was  always  a  bold,  reckless  fellow, 
and  for  fear  of  accidents,  and  the  night  being  cool, 
he  had  fortified  his  inner  man  upon  this  occasion 
with  a  spiritual  coat  of  mail,  which  made  him  cou- 
rageous enough  to  face  the  d 1  himself. 

The  time  was  come  to  try  his  pluck.  A  stran- 
ger made  his  appearance  through  the  murky  shade, 
and  paddling  his  old  shattered  boat  alongside  of 
Jaac's  skiff,  presented  in  the  glare  of  the  jack-light 
an  object  of  fear  and  admiration.  He  was  tall,  mus- 
cular, sun-browned,  large-featured,  and  lank-jawed. 
His  eyes  of  piercing  black  were  set  far  back  under 
tremendous  arches  of  overhanging  eye-brows.  His 
long,  straight,  black  hair  fell  in  every  direction  from 
under  a  naval  chapeau-de-bras,  which  was  evi- 
dently much  the  worse  for  wear.  He  was  booted 
to  the  thighs,  and  his  body  was  wrapped  in  a  pea- 
jacket,  tied  about  his  waist  with  a  piece  of  old  rope. 
Around  his  neck  was  hung  a  speaking-trumpet,  and 
a  pistol-handle  peeped  from  either  outside  breast- 
pocket. 

"Hilloa,  mister,  is  that  you  ?"  he  sung  out,  in  a 


292      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

familiar,  good-natured  tone,  to  Jaac,  as  he  struck 
his  oar  into  the  mud,  and  held  on. 

Now,  any  ordinary  man  would  have  been  fright- 
ened out  of  his  wits  by  this  salutation.  But  Jaac, 
although  he  felt  rather  queer,  (for  it  run  in  his  head 
immediately  that  this  might  be  the  old  colonel,)  an- 
swered the  new-comer's  question  without  the  least 
trepidation. 

"  Hilloa,  jT^ourself,  stranger,  I  don't  know  you.'' 
Conversation  at  once  commenced  ;  conducted  with- 
out reserve,  and  with  some  shrewdness  on  the  part 
of  Jaac ;  but  all  he  was  able  to  get  from  the  man 
with  the  cap,  was,  that  he  lived  up  the  creek,  and 
had  come  down  to  catch  a  mess  of  eels.  Jaac  knew 
that  there  was  no  living  man  hke  him  that  had  his 
habitation  about  those  parts  ; — as  for  ghosts,  he  be- 
gan to  have  his  doubts.  But  he  was  nothing 
daunted.  He  talked  to  old  Pea-jacket  like  a  cate- 
chism-book; and  quite  a  famiUarity  began  to  be 
established.  After  a  while,  the  stranger  yawned? 
and  said  he  believed  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  to 
work  ;  so  he  asked  Jaac  for  a  light  to  set  his  jack- 
o'-lantern  a-going.  Jaac  handed  him  a  fire-brand, 
which  the  new  comer  stooping,  touched  to  some 
fire-works  in  the  centre  of  his  boat ;  and  immedi- 
ately up  there  started  two  long  greenish  shoots  of 
flame,  edged  with  black  streaks.  It  was  enough  to 
make  the  stoutest  heart  quail ;  for  the  light  was 
oppressive  to  the  eyes,  and  there  was  an  almost 
choking  smoke,  and  the  fire-place  was  nothing  else 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      293 


than  a  human  skull,  and  the  two  streams  of  flame 
darted  from  the  eyeless  sockets  ! 

The  old  colonel,  (for  it  was  evident  now  that  it 
was  he,)  having  got  all  ready,  took  up  his  jack: 
which  had  only  one  prong — (but  that  was  very 
sharp,  and  with  a  long  barb,) — and  began  his  sport. 
Jaac  had  not  yet  trembled  a  jot ;  but  now  it  made 
his  hair  to  stand  on  end,  to  see  the  old  man  catch 
eels.  When  his  arrow-like  weapon  struck  the  wa- 
ter, there  was  a  hissing  sound,  as  though  the  iron 
was  hot ;  and  every  eel  that  was  drawn  out,  wind- 
ing and  writhing  on  the  fatal  point,  screamed  and 
cried  as  he  came  into  the  air,  hke  a  little  child . 
The  old  man  shook  them  off,  however,  and  said 
nothing.  He  seemed  to  be  very  expert,  and  pre- 
sently there  was  such  a  squalling  and  roaring  in 
his  boat,  that  one  would  have  thought  all  the 
children  in  Erebus  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  bay. 
The  noise  at  last  seemed  to  disturb  the  colonel 
himself;  for  he  turned  around  all  of  a  sudden,  and 
swore  at  the  slimy  musicians  a  loud  big  oath  ;  when 
they  immediately  left  off  crying,  and  began  whis- 
thng.  Jaac  used  to  say  that  he'd  "take  his  affida- 
vit of  the  fact,  that  they  whistled  a  leetle  ahead  of 
old  Caspar  Van  Sinderen's  niggars ;  and  they're 
the  best  whistlers  on  Long-Island,  by  all  odds."  It 
set  him  a  laughing,  though ;  and  he  was  quaking 
and  trembling  and  laughing  all  at  the  same  time, 
for  half  an  hour,  so  that  he  lost  all  hopes  of  holding 
himself  together  much  longer;  when  a  gun  was 
25* 


294      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

lieai'd  down  among  the  breakers,  in  the  direction 
of  Gilgoa  inlet. 

"  A  ship  on  shore — by ! "  exclaimed  the 

old  colonel ;  and  he  threw  down  his  jack,  stamped 
out  his  light,  kicked  his  eels  overboard,  and  pad- 
dled up  towards  Jaac.  There  was  a  fierce  and  de- 
termined rigidness  of  the  muscles  of  his  face ;  his 
teeth  were  set ;  his  fists  were  clenched ;  and  his 
ej^es  shot  out  a  terrible  gleam,  that  made  Jaac  wither 
away  before  him.     He  pulled  alongside. 

"  Jaac,"  said  he  ;  and  he  then  stopped  short ;  fix- 
ing his  keen,  savage  eyes  upon  the  almost  blinded 
vision  of  the  poor  fisherman,  and  looking  with  in- 
tense gaze  into  his  face,  for  more  than  a  minute,  as 
though  he  would  read  his  very  soul. 

At  length  relaxing  his  features,  as  if  satisfied 
with  the  investigation,  he  proceeded  :  "  Jaac,  I  like 
you  :  you  are  a  brave  man  ;  and  I  will  make  your 
fortune."  He  then  went  on  and  told  him  that  he 
was  certain  there  was  a  ship  in  the  breakers, 
and  he  proposed  that  they  should  row  down  and 
get  aboard,  and  kill  the  crew  and  passengers,  and 
secure  the  cargo.  The  proposition  was  so  bluntly 
made,  and  so  startling,  Jaac  could  make  no  reply. 
The  old  man,  seeing  that  he  had  been  too  fast,  sat 
down  and  began  to  reason  about  it. 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  human  nature,  that  the  god-like 
exercise  of  the  mind  should  make  him  a  villain, 
who,  ignorant,  had  been  innocent !  The  wise  man 
said  truly,  that  "  in  much  wisdom  is  much  grief,  and 
he  that  increaseth  knowledge,  increaseth  sorrow." 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      295 

It  was  the  serpent's  subtle  reasoning,  and  poor  Eve's 
simple  thinking,  that  accomplished  the  first  trans 
gression.  Every  thorough-bred  felon  is  a  skilful, 
although  he  be  an  unsound  logician.  He  can,  at 
the  least,  find  a  reason  or  an  excuse  for  his  conduct, 
which  himself,  who  is  the  only  judge  in  the  case, 
will  readily  determine  to  be  good  and  sufficient. 
Were  there  not  always  some  "  flattering  unction " 
to  be  laid  to  the  souls  of  incipient  transgressors, 
vice  would  have  few,  perhaps  no  willing  pro- 
selytes. 

What  said  the  old  colonel  to  .Taac  that  could  re- 
concile piracy  and  murder  to  his  conscience?  Why, 
he  took  for  his  text  the  speech  made  to  Alexander 
by  the  Mediterranean  pirate  brought  in  chains  before 
him  ;  and  commented  most  Dale-owenistically  upon 
natural  rights,  and  abstract  good,  and  evil,  and 
faith,  and  evidence,  and  property,  and  poverty,  and 
oppression  ;  until  Jaac's  brains  were  all  in  a  whirl. 

"  If  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal,"  argued  the 
tempter,  •'  what  right  have  those  rich  merchants  to 
possess  broadcloths,  and  silks,  and  specie,  while  you 
have  none?  And  if  they  will  not  willingly  give 
you  your  share,  haven't  you  a  right  to  take  it  your- 
self? And  if  they  resist  you  with  force,  haven't 
you  a  right  to  kill  them  in  self-defence  ?  And  what 
if  the  law  forbid  you — what  is  the  law  ?  Is  not  that 
law  against  the  constitution  of  human  nature,  which 
takes  a  poor  man's  share  in  the  goods  of  this  world, 
and  gives  it  to  the  rich  ?  And  are  not  greater  crimes 
perpetrated  every  day,  according  to  law,  than  of- 


r 


296      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

fences  are  committed  against  law  ?  And  after  all? 
what  does  this  '  virtue'  consist  in,  but  in  the  not 
being  found  out  ?  Answer  me  that :" — concluded 
the  old  casuist,  with  emphasis ;  and  he  stuck  his 
fists  into  his  sides,  and  threw  back  his  head  with  an 
air  of  triumph. 

Jaac  scratched  his  consideration-cap,  and  though 
he  did  not  wholly  lelish  the  morals  of  his  rapid  in- 
structor, yet  he  could  urge  not  a  doubt  nor  a  quer}^ 
upon  the  behalf  of  his  forlorn  virtue.  Was  it  cow- 
ardice, or  was  it  principle  that  made  him  hesitate  ? 

'•  Come,  take  a  horn,"  pursued  the  cunning  old 
seducer,  "  and  cheer  your  spirits  up.  You'll  be  none 
the  worse  for  a  little  steam  this  chilly  night." 

Shall  we  stop  here,  and  read  a  homily  on  tem- 
perance ?  No,  no,  let  every  moral  follow  its  own 
story. 

Jaac  took  the  proffered  jug,  and  being  really  very 
thirsty  after  his  long  excitement,  he  drank  a  good 
long  drink,  before  he  tasted  what  kind  of  hquor  it 
was.  At  last  he  stopped,  and  shrieked  out,  as  if  in 
pain,  he  beseeched  the  colonel  for  some  water,  for 
the  old  rascal  had  given  him  something  raw,  that 
burned  him  just  as  though  it  were  molten  lead. 

The  colonel  told  him  he  never  kept  such  stuff, 
but  advised  him  to  cool  his  throat  with  a  little  of 
his  own  rum.  Jaac  did  so,  and  he  always  said  that 
it  was  like  so  much  cold  water,  in  comparison  with 
the  spiritual  beverage  to  which  his  companion  had 
treated  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  co-operation  of  pcrsua- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      297 

sion  and  liquid  fire  had  gained  for  Colonel  Tom  a 
willing  coadjutor  in  his  projected  expedition.  Jaac's 
eyes  began  to  swell  and  burn,  and  he  felt  a  vigor  in 
his  arm,  and  a  fierceness  in  his  heart,  which  he 
never  knew  before.  He  started  up  in  his  boat,  and 
crying,  "I'll  go— I'll  go— lead  on,"  he  led  the  way 
himself. 

On  they  pulled  towards  the  inlet,  in  grim  and 
death-hke  silence,  while  another  and  yet  another 
gun  flashed  upon  the  sky  in  the  south-east,  and 
illuminated  the  way  to  the  scene  of  distress. 

A  half  an  hour's  row  brought  them  into  full  view 
of  a  noble  galleon,  heaving  and  pitching,  and  beat- 
ing her  racked  and  groaning  sides  upon  a  high 
sand-bank,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  beach. 
The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale,  and  the  angry 
waves  washed  over  her  decks,  and  the  cordage 
creaked,  and  her  white  sails  all  standing  fluttered 
and  veered,  as  if  the  crew  were  so  frozen  that  they 
could  not  pull  a  rope.  Just  as  they  turned  the 
point  of  the  inlet,  her  jib  was  blown  clean  off,  and 
fell  into  the  water.  Then  up  rose  a  wild  cry  of 
terror  from  the  wrecked  wretches  on  board.  It  was 
enough  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone. 

Just  then  the  moon  gleamed  out  from  behind  a 
black  cloud,  and  discovered  our  two  cut-throat 
friends.  It  was  a  gleam  of  hope  and  joy  to  the 
perishing  crew ;  "  Thank  God  !  there's  help,"  went 
up  from  many  a  happy  heart. 

"  Bring  us  a  rope  from  shore,"  sung  out  the  cap- 
tain of  the  ship  ;  "  we're  going  to  pieces." 


298      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

The  colonel,  with  all  the  coolness  in  the  world, 
took  up  his  speaking-trumpet,  and  in  a  voice  above 
the  inultitudinous  uproar  of  the  elements,  answered, 
"  Ay,  ay,  sir,  we  are  coming.     Hold  on." 

•'  Now,  Jaac,"  said  he,  bending  over  towards  his 
pupil,  "  take  this  cutlass,  and  when  we  get  along- 
side, fasten  your  skiff  to  the  ship,  follow  me,  and  go 
to  work.     Kill  them  all — every  soul  of  them." 

Although  Jaac  was  now  possessed  of  the  soul  of 
a  demon,  yet  he  half  repented  of  his  undertaking. 
But  it  was  of  no  use  at  this  late  hour.  His  destiny 
controlled  him — he  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat. 

"  Where's  the  rope  ?"  said  the  captain,  leaning 
over  the  ship's  side,  as  they  came  up. 

"  Here  it  is,"  answered  the  colonel,  discharging  a 
pistol  into  his  right  eye,  and  leaping  with  a  super- 
natural bound  upon  the  deck.  Jaac  followed  at  a 
slow  pace,  and  found  the  colonel  cutting  and  slash- 
ing away,  with  great  spirit  and  activity.  The  pas- 
sengers were  all  down  in  the  cabin,  at  prayers  ;  but 
the  crew  were  running  about  the  deck,  pursued  by 
the  old  man,  and  screaming  for  mercy  and  quarter. 
Some  ran  up  the  shrouds,  others  sought  the  stern 
or  the  bowsprit,  the  long-boat  or  the  hen-coop,  and 
three  or  four  poor  fellows  made  their  escape  up  to 
the  cross-trees.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  The  old 
man  pursued,  and  cut  them  down  every  where,  and 
in  every  fashion  ;  and  at  one  time  the  men  fell  from 
the  mast-head  as  thick  as  hail.  Jaac  stood  still,  not 
exactly  in  horror,  but  in  amazement.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  tragedy  was  glorious,  but  almost  too 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      299 

acute  for  comfort.  He  was  like  a  living  dead  man. 
He  could  neither  act  nor  speak.  He  felt  within  him 
all  the  fire  of  a  murderer  ;  but  he  didn't  know  how 
to  begin.  Perhaps,  it  was  because  he  had  never 
yet  drawn  blood.  He  struggled  hard,  but  could  not 
move  his  hands.  While  laboring  in  this  distress, 
the  colonel  came  running  up  to  him,  mad  enough 
to  tear  him  to  pieces,  and  asked  him  *'  what  he  was 
standing  there  for,  idle  ?" 

Jaac  started,  and  looked  around  for  a  man  to  kill, 
but  there  was  not  a  living  soul  left  on  deck.  So, 
being  wilhng  to  do  all  he  could,  he  picked  up  a 
sailor,  whom  the  colonel  had  cut  down  with  a 
sabre-gash  across  his  head,  and  who  was  not  quite 
dead,  and  carried  him  to  the  ship's  side  and  threw 
him  overboard. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  shouted  the  old  gentleman, 
taking  off  his  chapeau,  and  wiping  on  it  tbe  blood 
that  was  dripping  from  his  hands.  "  Well  done  for 
a  young  beginner.  But  come,  my  boy,  there's  more 
work  to  do.  Let's  take  a  drink,  and  go  and  attend 
to  the  women,  in  the  cabin.  We'll  finish  our  frolic 
there,  and  then  see  if  there's  any  specie  aboard. 
Drink,  drink,  my  boy,  and  hurry,  for  the  ship  will 
go  apart  soon.'' 

The  mad  potation  was  renewed,  and  Jaac  raved 
for  blood.  One  blow  with  his  foot  threw  the  cabin- 
door  off  its  hinges,  and  one  bound  brought  him  into 
the  room  where  the  miserable  passengers,  men,  wo- 
men, and  children,  were  huddled  together.  They 
were  all  upon  their  knees ;  and  one  old  gray  headed 


300      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

man  was  praying  aloud,  with  great  fervency.  They 
gave  a  terrible  shriek,  as  Jaac  and  the  colonel  rush- 
ed in,  and  crowded  like  cattle  in  a  slaughter-yard, 
into  a  corner  of  the  cabin,  offering  no  resistance 
against  their  murderers. 

The  colonel  very  quietly  took  a  seat  upon  a  sea- 
chest,  and  stretching  out  his  arms,  gaped  long  and 
lazily,  and  complaining  of  fatigue,  told  Jaac  that  he 
must  kill  these  folks. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Jaac,  and  he  dashed  at  the 
crowd,  cutlass  in  hand.  But  some  how  or  other,  he 
couldn't  either  strike  straight,  or  else  he  couldn't  get 
up  close  enough,  or  else,  fierce  as  he  felt,  he  didn't, 
after  all,  want  to  draw  blood ;  for  he  kept  thrust- 
ing and  slashing  for  a  long  time,  and  he  didn't  touch 
hide  or  hair. 

"  Go  ahead,  Jaac,"  cried  the  colonel,  sharply. 
"  It's  getting  late,  and  we've  no  time  to  spare." 

Jaac  sprang  at  the  bidding  of  that  awful  voice, 
and  dropping  his  cutlass,  threw  himself  upon  the 
gray-headed  man  above  mentioned,  and  puUing 
him  out  into  the  centre  of  the  cabin  by  the  hair  of 
his  head,  he  took  fair  ground,  and  squared  off  at  him 
with  his  fists  :  then  drawing  back  his  sinewy  arm, 
until  his  knuckles  were  close  to  his  chin,  he  hit  him 
a  smasher  of  a  blow,  in  the  left  cheek,  and  knocked 
him  down. 

'•  I'll  stand  by  that  hck,"  said  the  old  man, 
chuckling.  "He  won't  rise  again."  The  gray- 
headed  passenger  was  dead. 

On  rushed  the  initiated  murderer.  The  spell  was 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.     30I 

broken  that  had  tied  his  hands.  He  had  shed 
blood,  and  was  now  as  insatiate  as  his  demoniac 
instructor.  He  swung  aloft  his  cutlas  over  the 
head  of  the  next  wretch  who  came  in  his  way,  and 
who  happened  to  be  a  pale  young  man,  dressed  ii. 
black,  with  spectacles,  and  wlio  looked  like  a  doc- 
tor, or  a  lawyer.  But  just  as  the  death-brinsrino- 
weapon  was  descending  in  its  swift  course,  upon  its 
devoted  victim,  a  new  figure  made  his  appearance 
in  the  scene,  and  brought  salvation  where  before 
there  was  not  even  hope.  This  was  none  other 
than  a  large  Newfoundland  dog,  who  had  before 
contented  himself  with  howhng,  but  who,  now  that 
danger  threatened  his  master  so  imminently,  seemed 
to  acquire  a  new  impulse.  He  sprang  at  the  breast 
of  Jaac,  and  fixed  his  long,  sharp  teeth  deep  into 
his  flesh.  The  pain  was  severe,  but  Jaac  dropped 
his  cutlas,  and  clasping  his  hands  around  his  a? 
sail  ant's  neck,  throttled  him  oflT.  and  strangled  him 
with  the  ease  that  would  have  crushed  a  caterpil- 
lar. The  beautiful  animal  fell  hfeless  from  his 
grasp. 

The  next  person  Jaac  laid  hold  of  was  a  youno- 
woman  of  about  seventeen  years  of  age.  She  was 
a  beautiful  creature,  and  her  long  hair  was  all  dis- 
hevelled, and  her  blue  eyes  streamed  with  a  flood  of 
pearly  drops,  and  she  fell  on  the  floor,  and  clung  to 
Jaac's  knees,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such 

a  piteous  expression,  that  a  very  d 1  would  have 

spared  her  life. 

Vol.  I.  26 


302      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

'•  Don't  kill  that  girl,  Jaac,''  echoed  the  colonel. 
"  I  want  her.     Stab  that  old  woman." 

"Want  her,  sir?"  replied  Jaac,  with  a  hesitating 
look  at  the  old  reprobate. 

"  Want  her,  sir?"  iterated  the  pirate,  in  a  voice 
of  thunder.  '•  Ay,  don't  you  see  she  is  pretty  ? 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  and  he  laughed  that  infernal  laugh 
again. 

'•'  Oh  !  spare  me,  spare  me,"  cried  the  fair  victim 
— save  me  from  that  worse  than  demon  ;  or  have 
pity,  and  strike  your  knife  into  my  heart.  Is  there 
no  mercy  for  a  helpless  girl  ?  Have  you  a  sister, 
or  a  wife  ?  think — oh  !  think  of  her  !" 

Jaac  relaxed  his  grasp  :  a  cold  chill  ran  over  him, 
the  perspiration  stood  upon  his  brow,  and  he  was 
near  fainting  on  the  spot.     He  had  been  married 

only  about  a  year  before,  and  to  a  girl  so  like , 

it  must,  it  must  have  been  her  sister.  He  dropped 
his  hands  by  his  sides,  and  looked  down  with  a 
vacant  gaze  at  the  lovely  petitioner.  The  appeal 
was  too  much  for  him — he  forgot  his  master,  and 
saw  and  knew  nothing  but  the  face  before  him, 
which,  strange  to  say,  became  every  moment  more 
and  more  painfully  familiar.  As  she  urged  her 
appeal  more  earnestly,  and  passionately,  pleading 
with  a  voice  well  accustomed  to  his  ear,  a  mist 
seemed  to  fall  from  his  eyes — his  virtue  returned  to 
him — he  could  not  weep,  but  he  groaned  aloud  : 
could  it  be?  that  countenance!  those  eyes!  that 
voice !     "  Oh  !  save  me,  save  me,  my  husband  !" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      308 

shrieked  the  poor  conscious  girl,  and  Jaac  in  agony 
clasped  to  his  breast  his  own  darhng  faithful  wife. 

The  old  colonel  did  not  seem  to  relish  much  this 
discovery,  or  the  change  of  conduct  on  tlie  part  of 
Jaac.  He  cursed  him  for  a  tender-hearted  chicken, 
and  commanded  him,  with  a  savage  voice,  to  '•  hand 
the  girl  over  to  him." 

'•  It's  my  wife,  sir,"  said  Jaac,  suppliantly. 

'•  What  of  that  ?  you  fool !"  replied  the  colonel, 
advancing  towards  the  chnging  couple. 

Jaac  had  no  idea  of  surrendering  his  young  con- 
sort to  the  gloating  old  rascal  so  readily ;  so  he 
picked  up  his  cutlas,  and  made  at  him.  He  could 
strike,  now,  fair  and  hard,  and  he  gave  good  blows 
too ;  but  they  went  through  his  antagonist  just  as 
though  he  were  a  cloud.  The  colonel  stood  still, 
laughing  at  him,  in  his  fiendish  fashion  ;  and  he 
let  Jaac  cut  him  through  and  through,  up  and 
dow^n,  and  crosswise;  still  there  he  stood,  sound, 
and  whole,  and  laughing. 

Well,  at  last  he  stopped  short,  and  swore  he 
wouldn't  wait  any  longer ;  and  drawing  a  pistol 
from  his  pocket,  he  struck  Jaac  with  the  stock  a 
blow  on  the  temples,  that  sent  him  reeling  against 
the  opposite  lockers  :  at  the  same  time  he  seized 
the  fainting  girl,  and  bearing  her,  utterly  senseless, 
upon  his  left  arm,  he  hurried  up  the  companion- 
way,  and  disappeared. 

Jaac  was  on  his  feet  aarain  in  a  twinklinsr.  and 
in  hot  and  close  pursuit.  The  spectre  pirate  was 
just  shoving  off  from  the  ship  as  he  threw  himself 


;{04      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

over  her  side,  so  that  he  was  only  a  few  strokes  of 
ail  oar  behind.  Then  was  rowed  the  goodliest  boat- 
race,  and  for  the  richest  prize,  too,  that  the  country 
has  ever  seen.  The  "  Raynortown  Standard,"  in 
i,nving  an  account  of  the  contest,  remarked  that  the 
odds  were  decidedly  in  favor  of  the  colonel  at  the 
start,  for  he  was  not  only  ahead,  but  he  carried 
the  least  weight,  being  considerably  ethereal  himself, 
and  not  w^eighing  over  a  quarter  of  a  pound  at  the 
utmost,  and  having  aboard,  in  addition,  only  Jaac's 
wife  and  his  fire-skull,  that  together  would  not  rise 
a  ton ;  while  Jaac,  on  the  contrary,  was  over  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  himself,  and  had  at  least  twenty 
pounds  of  stone,  besides  his  eels,  and  a  heavy  heart 
to  pull  with.  This  inequality,  however,  was  some- 
w4iat  compensated  by  the  difference  of  the  boats. 
The  colonel's  was  broad  and  loggy,  and  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  Charon's  old  ferry-er,  and  leaked 
so  badly  that  Mrs.  Spragg's  frock  got  quite  wet. 
But  Jaac's  was  a  trim,  long,  narrow,  tight,  beautiful 
skiff.  She  walked  over  the  top  of  the  waves,  fling- 
ing ])ack  their  combing  edges  like  the  foam  from 
the  neck  of  a  gallant  racer,  or  like  the  long-flowing 
hair  of  a  country  maiden,  parted  on  her  forehead, 
and  blown  back  by  the  wanton,  dallying  wind. 
She  seemed  to  live  and  feel  the  honor  of  the  con- 
test, and  to  anticipate  the  glory  of  a  victory.  The 
husband  first  gained  upon  the  ravisher.  Two  to 
one  were  freely  bet  by  the  sympathizing  mermaids 
that  the  pirate  would  be  overtaken.  The  mermen, 
wlio  took  the  odds,  had  to  interfere  to  prevent  foul 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      305 

play,  and  to  keep  the  ladies  from  pushing  Jaac 
along".  Presently  the  pirate  shot  ahead,  and  cre- 
ated an  awful  distance  between  him  and  the  des- 
pairing Jaac.  When,  joy  !  joy  !  in  his  eager  speed, 
he  left  the  safe  channel  and  ran  hard  upon  a  sand- 
bar. This  good  fortune  brought  up  the  distance  of 
the  skiff,  and  Jaac  could  almost  touch  the  pirate- 
craft  with  his  oar,  when  out  jumped  the  old  colonel. 
and,  with  superhuman  force,  dragged  her  out  of  his 
reach  across  the  bar,  and  lanched  her  into  the  op- 
posite channel.  This  manoeuvre  threw  the  fisher- 
man completely  off  the  course  ;  and  he  was  obliged 
to  back  water,  and  go  around  the  point  of  the  bar. 
Now  came  the  time  for  the  last  desperate  struggle. 
West  island,  and  Wanza's  flat,  and  the  Squaw  isl- 
ands, were  all  passed,  and  straight  before  the  pant- 
ing oarsman  lay  the  spectre-pirate's  home.  There 
was  the  creek,  glittering  in  the  moon-beams,  look- 
ing so  virtuous  and  so  happy,  and  there  was  the  little 
hillock  soon  to  swallow  up — nay,  nay,  one  struggle 
more — Jaac  looked  to  the  east,  but  not  a  streak  of 
light  was  yet  to  be  seen.  He  strained  with  a  des- 
perate exertion.  In  vain,  in  vain ; — the  pirate 
glided  from  him  at  tenfold  speed,  and  a  rescue  was 
impossible.  Like  a  vapor  the  spectre-skiff  swept 
around  the  bend  of  the  creek,  and  disappeared  be- 
hind the  high  bank.  Jaac  saw  no  more  ;  a  long, 
piteous  scream  fell  upon  his  ear,  and  he  became  in- 
sensible of  further  suffering. 

How  long  our  adventurous  friend  lay  in  that 
condition,  it  is  impossible  to  tell.  But  the  next  after- 
26* 


306      THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK. 

noon,  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  knew  the  bet,  and 
felt  anxious  on  account  of  his  not  returning,  went  out 
to  look  for  him.  They  found  him  in  the  bottom  of  his 
boat,  fast  asleep,  high  and  dry,  on  a  mud  flat  near 
Gin  island.     It  seems  that  after  he  came  to  himself, 
he  fell  asleep  from  mere  exhaustion,  and  drifted  with 
the  tide  to  the  spot  where  he  was  discovered.  When 
they  waked  him  up,  he  was  quite  stupid,  and  had  a 
very   confused,   misty   sort  of  imagination,  as   to 
where  he  was  and  what  he  had  been  about.     To 
such  an  extent  does  bodily  exertion  and  mental 
distress  weaken  and  reduce  poor  mortals  !     When 
he  was  told  that  his  wife  was  very  much  distressed 
about  him,  and  was  at  home  crying  and  wringing 
her  hands,  about  the  probable  consequences  of  his 
fool-hardiness,  the  poor  man  was  almost  disposed  to 
believe  he  had  been  drunk  or  dreaming.     Like  a 
prudent  man,  however,  he  said  nothing,  but  steered 
for  his  house  as  soon  as  possible,  and  went  to  bed. 
The  neighbors  saw,  from  Jaac's  mysterious  manner, 
that  something  had  been  the  matter,  and  the  report 
soon  got  around  that  Jaac  had  had  an  interview 
with  old  Colonel  Tom. 

The  next  day  Jaac  was  more  cool  and  collected, 
and  he  remembered  all  the  occurrences  of  that  fear- 
ful night  with  great  accuracy  and  minuteness.  He 
related  the  whole  matter,  without  any  reserve  or 
hesitation,  declaring  that  he  thought  it  his  duty  to 
confess,  and  that  he  couldn't  die  happy  unless  he 
unburdened  his  mind,  and  that  if  he  must  swing 
for  it,  he  couldn't  help  it.     The  good  people  listened 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BRICK-HOUSE  CREEK.      307 

to  his  recital  with  fear  and  horror  and  pity.  Three 
justices  met  and  took  his  examination,  but  the  thin^ 
never  went  any  further.  Some  say  that  the  staters 
attorney  entered  a  nolle  prosequi  on  account  of 
Jaac's  wife  swearing  she  was  at  home  all  that  night, 
which  made  an  alibi,  and  that's  enough  to  kill  any 
indictment.  Others,  again,  wink  their  eye,  and  look 
knowing,  and  say  that  Jaac  was  under  a  high  pres- 
sure of  steam  that  night.  But  this  was  a  scanda- 
lous insinuation,  made,  no  doubt,  by  some  of  the 
friends  of  Ben  Storer,  who  lost  the  bet.  On  the 
whole,  it  is  a  very  mysterious  affair.  There's  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  as  there  is  in  fact  about 
every  thing  else.  As  for  myself,  sometimes  I  believe 
it,  and  then  again  I  don't  beheve  it,  but  I  think  I 
have  always  believed  the  greater  part  of  it.  But 
that's  the  end  of  the  legend. 


THE  LITTLE  VOYAGERS. 

BY  THE  REV.   DR.  PISE. 


The  lake  was  smooth,  and  not  a  breath 

Stirred  through  the  sleeping  grove  ; 
The  oak-tree  hung  as  mute  as  death 

Upon  the  hills  above  : 
"  Come,  sister,"  said  the  young  Arnest^ 

While  sporting  on  the  bank  : 
"  Come  o'er  this  water's  silvery  breast — 

Let's  sail  upon  this  plank." 

"  Yes,  brother,"  and  the  plank  she  drew 

Along  the  slippery  sand. 
Around  his  neck  her  arm  she  threw — 

And  they  drifted  from  the  land. 
Poor  children  !  though  these  waters  lie 

Sleeping  in  sunshine  bright, 
That  ray,  which  dazzles  now  the  eye, 

Shall  melt  away  in  night. 

Yet  forth  they  drifted,  till  the  lake, 

Roused  by  the  evening  breeze, 
Around  the  plank  began  to  break. 

And  swell  in  little  seas  : 
<' Alas,  my  brother  !"  cried  Florelle, 

And  raised  a  piteous  scream  ; 
Till  both,  grown  sick  and  dizzy,  fell 

Into  the  treacherous  stream. 

So  they,  who  sail  on  pleasure's  streams, 

Move  beauteously  away  ; 
For  every  scene  around  them  seems 

Elysian  and  gay. 
But,  when  attracted  from  the  shore 

By  zephyr's  scented  breath, 
The  threatening  waves  begin  to  roar. 

And  waft  them  on  to  death. 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  FRENCH  OPERA. 


BY   NATUANIRL   P.    WILLIS. 


I  WENT  last  night  to  the  French  opera,  to  sec  the 
first  dancer  of  the  world.  The  prodigious  enthu- 
siasm about  her  all  over  Europe  had,  of  course, 
raised  my  expectations  to  the  highest  pitch.  "  Have 
you  seen  TagUoniT  is  the  first  question  addressed 
to  a  stranger  in  Paris  ;  and  you  hear  her  name 
constantly  over  all  the  hum  of  the  cafis,  and  in 
the  crowded  resorts  of  fashion.  The  house  was 
overflowed.  The  king  and  his  numerous  family 
were  present ;  and  my  companion  pointed  out  to 
me  many  of  the  nobility,  whose  names  and  titles 
have  been  made  familiar  to  our  ears  by  the  innu- 
merable private  memoirs  and  autobiographies  of 
the  day.  After  a  httle  introductory  piece,  the  king 
arrived,  and,  as  soon  as  the  cheering  was  over,  the 
curtain  drew  up  for  "  Le  Dimi  et  le  Bayadere.'^''' 
This  is  the  piece  in  which  Taglioni  is  most  famous. 
She  takes  the  part  of  a  dancing  girl,  of  whom  the 
Bramah  and  an  Indian  jjrince  are  both  enamoured  ; 
the  former  in  the  disguise  of  a  man  of  low  rank  at 
the  court  of  the  latter,  in  search  of  some  one  whose 


The  god  and  the  dancing  girl. 


310  A  NIGHT  AT  THE  FRENCH  OPERA. 

love  for  him  shall  be  disinterested.  The  disguised 
god  succeeds  in  winning  her  affection,  and  after 
testing  her  devotion  by  submitting  for  a  while  to 
the  resentment  of  his  rival,  and  by  a  pretended  ca- 
price in  favor  of  a  singing  girl,  who  accompanies 
her,  he  marries  her,  then  saves  her  from  the  flames 
as  she  is  about  to  be  burned  for  marrying  beneath 
her  caste.  Tagiioni's  part  is  all  pantomime.  She 
does  not  speak  during  the  play,  but  her  motion  is 
more  than  articulate.  He  first  appearance  was  in 
a  troop  of  Indian  dancing  girls,  who  perform  before 
the  prince  in  the  public  square.  At  a  signal  from 
the  vizier  a  side  pavilion  opened,  and  thirty  or  forty 
bayaderes  glided  out  together,  and  commenced  an 
intricate  dance.  They  were  received  with  a  tre- 
mendous round  of  applause  from  the  audience  ;  but, 
with  the  exception  of  a  little  more  elegance  in  the 
four  who  led  the  dance,  they  were  dressed  nearly 
ahke ;  and,  as  I  saw  no  particularly  conspicuous 
figure,  I  presumed  that  Taglioni  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared. The  splendor  of  the  spectacle  bewildered 
me  for  the  first  moment  or  two,  but  I  presently 
found  ray  eyes  riveted  to  a  childish  creature  floating 
about  among  the  rest,  and,  taking  her  for  some 
beautiful  young  eUve  making  her  first  essays  in  the 
chorus,  I  interpreted  her  extraordinary  fascination 
as  a  triumph  of  nature  over  my  unsophisticated 
taste ;  and  wondered  to  myself  whether,  after  all. 
I  should  be  half  so  much  captivated  vvith  the  show 
of  skill  I  expected  presently  to  witness.  This  was 
Taglioni !     She  came  forward  directly,  in  a  /ja.^ 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  FRENCH  OPERA.  31] 

seul,  and  I  then  observed  that  her  dress  was  distin- 
guished from  that  of  her  companions  by  its  extreme 
modesty  both  of  fashion  and  ornament,  and  the  un- 
constrained ease  with  which  it  adapted  itself  to  her 
shape  and  motion.  She  looks  not  more  than  fifteen. 
Her  figure  is  small,  but  rounded  to  the  very  last 
degree  of  perfection  ;  not  a  muscle  swelled  beyond 
the  exquisite  outline ;  not  an  angle,  not  a  fault. 
Her  back  and  neck,  those  points  so  rarely  beautiful 
in  women,  are  faultlessly  formed ;  her  feet  and 
hands  are  in  full  proportion  to  her  size,  and  the  for- 
mer play  as  freely  and  with  as  natural  a  yielding- 
ness  in  her  fairy  slippers,  as  if  they  were  accus- 
tomed only  to  the  dainty  uses  of  a  drawing-room. 
Her  face  is  most  strangely  interesting ;  not  quite 
beautiful,  but  of  that  half-appeahng,  half-retiring 
sweetness  that  you  sometimes  see  blended  with  the 
secluded  reserve  and  unconscious  refinement  of  a 
young  girl  just  "out"  in  a  circle  of  high  fashion. 
In  her  greatest  exertions  her  features  retain  the 
same  timid  half  smile,  and  she  returns  to  the  al- 
ternate by-play  of  her  part  without  the  shghtest 
change  of  color,  or  the  slightest  perceptible  differ, 
ence  in  her  breathing,  or  the  ease  of  her  look 
and  posture.  No  language  can  describe  her  mo- 
tion. She  swims  in  your  eyes  like  a  curl  of  smoke, 
or  a  flake  of  down.  Her  difiiculty  seems  to  be  to 
keep  to  the  floor.  You  have  that  feeling  while  you 
gaze  upon  her,  that  if  she  were  to  rise  and  float 
away  like  Ariel,  you  would  scarce  be  surprised. 
And  yet  all  is  done  with  such  a  childish  uncon- 


312  A  NIGHT  AT  THE  FRENCH  OPERA. 

sciousiiess  of  adiiiiratioo,  such  a  total  absence  of 
exerljon  or  fatigue,  that  the  dehght  with  which  she 
fi?^  you  is  unmingled,  and,  assured  as  you  are  by 
the  perfect  purity  of  every  look  and  attitude,  that 
her  hitherto  spotless  reputation  is  dc^served  beyond 
a  breath  of  suspicion,  you  leave  her  with  as  much 
respect  as  admiration  ;  and  find  with  surprise  that 
a  dancing-girl,  who  is  exposed  night  a|JLer  night  to 
the  profaning  gaze  of  the  world,  has  crept  into  one 
of  the  most  sacred  niches  of  your  memory. 


END  OF  VOLUME  I, 


